


Picture Perfect People

by Aelys_Althea



Series: Simple People [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bantering, Escapism, Friends to Lovers, Gen, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Medically Compromised Characters, Mild Self-Loathing, Mutual Support, Online Friendships, Pre-Shiro/Allura, Strangers to Friends, This is really just an angst-fest, amputee characters, chatroom, episodic, long story, personal struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 122,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9590381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: Voltron. A place to seek companionship. Support. The consolation of like-minded people. That was what it was built for. It was what those who signed up for a membership sought. For the so-named paladins of Voltron, it is just that.Sometimes, the people we need aren't so easily found. Sometimes we need to find them for ourselves and even then we don't realise they're found until everything just... clicks. For a patchwork of sorry people, the friendship of faceless figures was exactly what they needed.





	1. People

_01/09 – 07.01 am_

_PrincessOfAltea: Would anyone like to talk?_

_PrincessOfAltea: If I talked, would someone listen?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I don't mind what we talk about. It can be anything you'd like._

_PrincessOfAltea: I just want to talk._

_PrincessOfAltea: To someone._

_PrincessOfAltea: Please._

_PrincessOfAltea: I don't like being alone._

_1/09 – 03.59pm_

_PrincessOfAltea: Anyone?_

* * *

There was no sound beyond the door when he pressed his ear to the wood. He knew there were those who had risen from their beds, but… at that moment, in the hallway there was no one.

Releasing a silent breath, Keith stepped back from the door. Plucking his red and white jacket from the floor, he shrugged the familiar weight onto his shoulders; it was an almost comforting weight despite the relative warmth of the morning. He slipped silently through the door.

No one was in sight, either. With slow steps, Keith crept down the hallway, easing with silent tread down the stairs. It was always better to creep, to not be noticed. If he flew beneath the radar, then there was less chance of a confrontation. Less chance to be poked and prodded. To be seen.

It was never a good idea to be seen. Not by anybody. Not of Keith could help it.

Unfortunately, the room afforded to him was at the far end of the house. The furthest end, as far from the front door as could be. He didn't begrudge it, because any room was good enough. And it was nice. Small, contained. It had a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe with a sliding door. Even a desk of sorts, though the chair that sat at it was too high to properly tuck in.

Keith liked that it was isolated. He had grown to prefer being alone.

Tiptoeing down to the bottom of the steps, Keith crept on silent feet towards the front door. If he glanced over his shoulder, he would be able to see into kitchen. He would see the dining table where Olly sat, munching through a heaped bowl of Cap'n Crunch as he did for every breakfast. He would see Clyde sitting across from him, tearing the crust off his toast as though he was a child with pickiness issues. He'd maybe even see Sara where she bustled around the kitchen getting the two boys' lunches. Keith's too, maybe, but he wouldn't take it. He would never take it.

Slipping into his boots, Keith considered before sparing a moment to crouch and tie his laces. He could hear the sound of conversation echoing from the kitchen and into the hallway but he didn't listen to their words. He didn't want to listen. They would be talking about school, about Clyde's part-time job and Olly's sports training that afternoon. It was Monday so it would be football, but it changed every day. Keith didn't want to be a part of that. It wasn't so much that he disliked talking but just that he simply… wouldn't.

It had been the wrong choice. A bad decision. He shouldn't have paused, shouldn't have crouched to properly tie his boots. Keith should have known it was a bad idea, but he'd grown complacent over the past weeks with little incident. Avoid and evade, act only when necessary. That was the lore he lived by. Why had he chosen to disregard it?

But Peter, Sara's husband, appeared at the head of the stairs, and though his head was bowed over a tablet, the wrinkles on his brow more pronounced in a frown and eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses, he noticed Keith almost immediately. Peter was a kind man, and as it was he met Keith's frozen gaze with an attempt at a warm smile and a nod of greeting. Nothing in his countenance would suggest that Keith hadn't seen him in person in days, let alone talked to him.

"Good morning, Keith. How are you today?"

At the sounds of his words, there was a pause of the conversation in the kitchen. Silenced briefly ensued, and then there was a slight clatter as Sara's voice sounded in exclamation, "Keith? Keith, are you there? Are you awake? Would – would you like some breakfast?"

Keith reflexively glanced towards the kitchen, his eyes the only thing he could move. He saw Sara skirt the table in a bustle of haste to plant herself in the kitchen doorway and adopt an overly-bright smile of greeting, just like her husband. But more than that, over her shoulder Keith saw Clyde. He saw Olly. He saw the older boy pause in picking apart his toast and brow lower in a frown, saw Olly similarly pause with spoon half-raised to his mouth, glance towards Clyde and immediately adopt an identical frown.

Then Keith was gone. With barely a murmur of excuse to Sara's openly hopeful expression, a glance towards Peter, he abandoned the rest of his laces and was out the door. The slam of heavy wood, the click of a lock snapping shut behind him, was resounding and oddly freeing.

Avoid and evade. Confront only when necessary. That was the only way it could be. It was the only way that was safe. Keep his lips closed and interact only when he… needed to?

_Red has joined the chatroom._

* * *

"Open! I'm open, you – Oh, look at that. We can't rely on your common sense at all, Spaniel."

The so name Spaniel – Sam by birth, but Lance thought he quite resembled a dog, especially when he pouted like that – turned towards him and planted his hands on his hips. "Like you could do any better, Lance."

Lance grinned as he and his makeshift team jogged backwards to the halfway line, Martin dribbling the ball between his feet. "I reckon I could. They don't call me 'The Tailor' for nothing. It's in deference to my weaving abilities."

"I think you're a crock of shit," Martin said from his side, though he and most of the rest of Lance's teammates were laughing good-naturedly. "I've never heard anyone call you that."

"Yeah, well, that's just because no one says it out loud," Lance replied, turning his grin upon him. Then he clapped his hands together and bellowed a resounding, "Alright, let's play some ball already! While we're still young!"

Laughter and enthusiasm met his words as their backyard soccer game flew into action once more. They weren't quite two full teams, but it was enough for a good, solid game with two actual goalies this time. Far better than last week with their minimal numbers. They'd had less then, and odd numbers at that.

Martin kicked off with a firm boot of his foot, sending the ball soaring towards Lance. Lance caught it with his own foot, turned in a defensive circle to defend it from his opponent's attack, and, with a flick out of the way, was dribbling at a run up the field. A pass to Andy, to Spaniel, back to Andy again, and Andy sent it to Lance.

Lance wasn't called the Tailor for no reason, even if it was really only himself who used that nickname. He wove around his opponents. He dodged aside from an attack with a spring of dextrous footwork. He shot and he scored.

Lance's team cried in an enthusiastic outburst of triumph as though they'd just won nationals. Their opponents, good-natured as they were, didn't begrudge them their glory. They never did. It was all in good grace that they played, all for the fun of it. They played because none could play any other way. Just like Lance, they'd missed their chance to be something greater, something bigger.

The opposing team had just scored another goal to the mixed cries of congratulations and light-hearted moans of regret from Lance's team when he saw his little sister arrive. Immediately, Lance felt his smile die on his face and he slowed in step returning towards the halfway line.

Spaniel, at his side and far from persistently indignant for the use of his nickname, slowed alongside him. He noticed Lance's expression almost immediately and raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Lance only shook his head, turned and jogged towards the side of the field. The soccer field itself was barely even half-sized, and ringed by trees alongside a children's playground. It was hardly ideal, but they would use what they could get. Sometimes, however, Lance wished that it wasn't barely a five minute walk from his home. Just a little distance would be nice.

Mika was bouncing on her toes where she stood, waiting for his arrival with dutiful respect alongside rather than upon the field. Lance loved his little sister, even as incessantly flooded with energy as she was, and she reminded him of himself in a lot of ways. That day, however, he couldn't have wanted to see her less.

Even so, Lance still adopted a smile as he drew alongside her. "Hey, Mika. What's up?"

Mika knew he knew, even though he asked. Lance could see it in the tentative smile she adopted that was a sure sight smaller than that she usually wore. She shifted from foot to foot. "Papá says he needs you at the shop if you could."

Lance found himself shifting on his own feet, struggling against the urge to groan. "Now?" He asked, almost pleadingly.

Mika ducked her head. "Yeah, now."

Lance spared a moment to close his eyes. The good humour he always felt when playing soccer was rapidly dwindling and he could feel the ball growing further and further away from him by the second. Loosing a slow exhalation, he nodded. "Alright. Yeah, alright. Give me twenty minutes. I've just got to duck home to get changed."

Mika nodded. "Okay. I'll tell Papá." Then she turned on her heel and all but fled from him, disappearing homeward at a bounding sprint.

Lance allowed himself a moment longer to close his eyes and regret. Then, to the sound of Andy's calling query, he adopted a bright smile and turned towards his teammates and opponents. "I'm really sorry, guys, but I've got to run."

A communal moan sounded, grumbles from both teams, though Lance knew that none begrudged him. "You heading to your dad's shop?" Spaniel called from where he stood, foot propped atop the soccer ball.

Lance nodded. "Yeah, sorry. I'll see you next week."

Calls of "See you" and "You'd better!" followed Lance as he turned away from the field. He didn't begrudge having to help his dad out. Not really. But sometimes… sometimes he did hope for something different. Sometimes he needed an outlet.

Still, he'd do what he had to. He always did.

_Sharpshooter18 has joined the chatroom._

* * *

The sound of the door clicking open had Pidge squeaking and leaping from her seat. She felt the same flood of irrational guilt well within her as she did when passing a policeman in the streets; she'd done nothing wrong, but reprimand seemed a surety on the horizon.

Slipping from her room and firmly closing the door behind her – her room was _hers_ and she didn't like _anyone_ coming inside – she hastened to the door and peered out into the hallway of her apartment.

At the far end of the hall, her mom was shrugging out of her jacket, hanging it up with practiced precision on the hook waiting alongside the door. Pidge's mom was always perfectly dressed, always appeared neatly groomed even at the very end of the day; hair in a tidy bun, clothes perfectly pressed as though they'd just been steamed, heels clicking in precise steps. Pidge didn't think she could ever be like her mom. Not in a million years.

Did she want to be? Pidge didn't know. She was still trying to figure that part out.

Swallowing her discomfort, Pidge leaned a little further out the door. She cleared her voice slightly before speaking. "Hi, Mom. You're home early."

Her mom glanced towards her, pausing as she stepped out of her heels and onto stockinged feet. She offered Pidge a small, distracted smile. "Hello, Katie. Did you have a nice day at school?" And then, before Pidge could even reply. "Have you done your homework? I hope you've done your homework before you've started playing games."

 _Always the reprimand,_ Pidge thought to herself. _Why yes, Mom, if I hadn't done my homework and instead whiled the afternoon playing RPGs, I would most certainly admit it to you._ Instead of speaking her thoughts, Pidge simply nodded once more. "Yes, I'm finished."

"Good girl," her mom said before, without another word, she disappeared through the doorway halfway along the hall into the kitchen and living room.

Pidge found herself releasing a sigh of relief. What had she expected? Her mom hadn't truly snapped at her in frustration in… it must have been weeks now. Months? Pidge couldn't remember. She should have confidence in her mom, she really should. Besides, when she got angry, it was always within reason. It wasn't like she would –

"Katie!"

The call echoed from the living room and Pidge flinched. Swallowing tightly once more, she leaned further out of her door. "Yes, Mom?"

"Have you had someone over today?"

 _Why yes, Mom, I would certainly invite someone over – and a stranger at that – because I know just how much you love people coming into your spotless house. Because you know how riddled with friends my schooling experience is. Of course I'd have every single one of them over._ "No, Mom. Why?"

"Whose shoes are these, then? They're not yours."

Pidge felt herself grow cold. Shoes… when had she…? Had she left them…? Struggling to keep her voice steady, Pidge replied with as much nonchalance as she could manage. "Oh, you mean in the lounge? Yes, they're mine."

"They're… yours?"

 _Please don't question it, please. Really, is it that weird? It's not that weird, is it?_ "I bought them the other day. I wanted to try something different."

There was a long pause in which Pidge thought her heart stopped and she hardly dared breathe. Was it so bad? Was it so terrible if her mom found out? Pidge didn't need to be logical and a government proclaimed 'exceptional student' to know that it wasn't. That it should be allowed. So why didn't it _feel_ allowed?

"This is unusual for you," her mom finally said. The soft thumps of footsteps bespoke her approach through the living room and Pidge fought to school her expression before she appeared in the hallway once more. When she did, Pidge resolutely met her gaze rather than drawing it to the shoes hooked over her fingers. "But so long as it wasn't a wasted purchase. Make sure you keep your shoes beside the door in future, please."

And just like that, the potential for a storm passed. Pidge's mom dropped the shoes beside the door and, without another glance towards Pidge, disappeared once more.

Pidge sagged at the bannister, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the railing. She shouldn't be so worried. No, she shouldn't be so _scared_. And yet she was. Against all logic – because she didn't _know_ how her mom would respond – she was starkly terrified. If her brother Matt were here, he would help. He would be able to reassure her.

But he wasn't. And riddled with a mixture of guilt, relief and self-loathing, Pidge all but crawled back into her bedroom. Her room was her sanctuary. _Her_ place. She didn't have to hide anything there. She could be herself, with just her computers for company.

_DiffWitch has entered the chatroom._

* * *

It was early evening by the time they got home, but that hardly mattered. Hunk was as bright and wide-awake as if he'd just gotten up barely hours before. Which, he would admit, he sort of had. Semi-nocturnal work hours did that to a person.

"I'll set up a better ramp," Hunk said as he and his mom trundled up the footpath along the main road. He turned her chair at their gate to sidle through the fence that skirted their squat little house. "It shouldn't be too hard seeing as there's only two steps, but it'll be better then having to shake you so much when we're on the move. I'm sorry the other one broke; I probably didn't reinforce it well enough. I'll make it better next time."

His mom didn't reply. She didn't turn to look at Hunk over her shoulder as he spoke, as he pushed her wheelchair towards the shallow steps before their front door. But Hunk didn't mind. He didn't need her acknowledgement.

"I bet I could rustle together a whole bunch of ramps, actually," he said, weaving around a piece of… something that he didn't want to think about that lay in the middle of their path. There was always junk thrown into their front lawn; Hunk's dad wasn't a popular person. Or he hadn't been. Despite his complete absence of nearly two years, Hunk was still forced to scrub graffiti from their front windows every so often, to say nothing of the rubbish that was lobbed onto their front lawn every other day.

Hunk ignored that, kept his tone bright as they wheeled the rest of the way up the footpath to the front door. "Larry from down at the shop said he'd be happy to give me some scrap metal and timber if I need it." Hunk turned his mother's chair around as he stopped at the steps before tugging her up after him with a grunt. "You know I," he paused at another grunt, "I think he likes you. He's always had a soft spot for our family but I'm pretty sure it's mostly you."

Still no reply, but Hunk still wasn't expecting one. His mom hadn't spoken a word in nearly a year. Not since the first incident.

The house was empty when Hunk opened the door, propping it wide enough for him to wheel his mom inside. A small house, just large enough for the two of them and his Gran when she came around almost every day, it was a blessing that it was only one level so that Hunk didn't have to struggle with more stairs.

Wheeling his mom into the kitchen, he kicked one of the chairs out from the dining table aside to make room to tuck her in. He paused to read the note in his gran's slanted script, made out the words 'I'll be back by six', before disregarding it and turning towards his mom. "Can I get you something to eat, maybe? I know you had something at the hospital but everyone knows hospital food can barely even be classified as real food." Hunk skirted the table, glancing in his mom's direction before turning away from her blank gaze once more. "Here, I'll bake you up some shortbread. I know you always like my shortbread. You said it was proof that I was an angel when I was little, do you remember? Maybe not, but I do."

Without further ado, Hunk set about throwing together a simple batch of biscuits, chattering to himself and his mom as he did. The familiar sounds of a wooden spoon scraping in the bowl, of trays clanking noisily, of the oven humming to life, were soothing to Hunk. He'd always been a kitchen boy in the brightest sense of the term. He enjoyed cooking. It was no wonder that he found himself there for most of the day when he was home. Larry, his local mechanic, had on numerous occasions asked him to apprentice down at the shop – he said Hunk had a gift for engineering that he shouldn't squander, even if he wasn't going to college – but in a lot of ways Hunk thought working in a kitchen suited him better.

Besides, this way his hours corresponded with those his mom would need him more. It wasn't fair to rely too heavily on his Gran, willing as she claimed to be.

The rich, heady scent of butter flooded the house with warmth, and as Hunk cleaned the kitchen with therapeutically familiar motions, he found himself smiling. Nothing quite lightened the mood like a batch of homemade biscuits. He was still smiling when he took himself to the dining table and dropped into the chair opposite his mom.

"I only made a small batch – only about a dozen – because we'll probably have to hide them all before Gran gets here," Hunk explained, wiping his hands on a tea towel before folding it before him on the table. He dropped his elbows alongside it, resting his chin on a fist and meeting his mom's gaze. "I think she's only having us on, though. I don't think she really disapproves sweet things."

Hunk grinned, fond reminiscence of his Gran turning teasing. His mom didn't reply.

"I asked Pops one time when I was little why she didn't like baking so much when she was such a good cook, and he said it wasn't that she didn't like it but that she liked it too much. He said she liked it so much that when she was younger she was as plump as a well-fed chook and had to stop or else she'd pop." He laughed and spared a glance down for his own belly. "I guess she passed that on to me, at least."

His mom still didn't reply. She didn't smile but simply stared at Hunk blankly, barely even blinking. Hunk swallowed his rising melancholy, that which always arose when he was left with himself for too long, and reaffirmed his smile.

"Did Gran do any baking with you, Mom? I wonder if she stopped before she had you or if it was after."

No reply.

"If I asked Gran to bake with me, do you think she would? She pretends to be a bit so hard, but I know she's as soft as cookie dough. Do you think I could trick her into it? I think it's a great way to bond and all that, working in the kitchen with someone and sharing what you've made.

Still nothing. Nothing but the increasingly strong scent of baking shortbread growing in the air. Hunk stared at his mom to the gradual falling of his smile. Sometimes it was just too hard to maintain.

Sighing, he dropped his chin, gaze falling down to the pockmarked table. There was the mark he'd made when he'd put the oven-hot tray upon it surface when he was six. Over there, the groove made by a wayward knife – and a butterknife at that – when he'd tried to cut through a rock cake that was truly as hard as a rock at ten years old. Scarred and bruised, the table bespoke the centre of Hunk's house and home better than any other piece of furniture did. It held memories, their dining table did.

"Wish you could bake with me again, Mom. I miss our Sunday morning bake-offs."

Hunk was speaking more to himself that to his mom now. On an innate level, he knew that she wouldn't reply. On a level that he didn't and wouldn't acknowledge, he understood that she never would. One stroke was bad luck. Two was horrendous. Three… it was a miracle that his mom was even still alive. No one really expected her to do more than blink for herself ever again.

"I miss that, Mom," Hunk murmured to himself, because he wasn't sure if she'd even hear it. A miracle it might be that his mom was still even here, but sometimes…

Sometimes it did feel incredibly lonely.

_Butterfingers has entered the chatroom._

* * *

The last thing Shiro recalled was an explosion. A fierce, sharp, booming echo that vibrated to his core, and the smacking impact of a force striking his shoulder, tearing his assault rifle from his hand.

Then nothing. He couldn't remember any pain, no bouts of hysteria in half-consciousness, no struggling to cling to awareness when every inch of his body was fighting to stay awake. There was just nothingness.

That scared Shiro more than anything.

Blinking into wakefulness, Shiro squinted around himself. Brightness. He got a sense of brightness, of light, and the smell of something vaguely sterile. Then the blurriness of his vision faded and the room made itself more clearly apparent.

Not a room. Not quite. A tent, he saw, though an expansive one. A familiar tent, for everyone knew what a field hospital looked like even if they hadn't had to utilise the services of one before. The longer Shiro squinted the less bright it became until, with a final blink to vanquish most of the foggy blurriness, he peered around himself.

Rows of beds lined each side of him. A white, curving ceiling sagged slightly like the tent it was. Fluorescent lights lined the very centre of that ceiling. Turning his head, Shiro could make out the vague shapes of figures in scrubs pulled over their uniforms. Another series of fierce blinking and Shiro realised his head wasn't quite as clear as he'd hoped he'd made it. Grogginess slowed his thoughts, cluttering his mind as if with cotton wool. He had the sense of it stoppering somehow, of numbness, of discomfort thinly veiled behind that softness, but he couldn't make it out.

_What… happened?_

Maybe he made some noise. Maybe he moved a little more noticeably than before. Shiro wasn't sure, but something must have drawn the attention of the field medics at the far end of the tent because the conversation paused for a moment before one figure detached themselves from the group and hastened to his side. Shiro was afforded a sense of blue, of efficient motions, of a pale face, above said face was leaning over him slightly with a small smile upon her lips. She was a little older than him, it would seem, though Shiro wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe he was wrong entirely.

"Hello, Shirogane," she said, her voice low and deliberately soothing. "How are you feeling today?"

Shiro blinked slowly before, with a herculean effort and a frown to accompany it, he struggled to push himself upright. The medic reached for him and a gentle touch to his shoulder was all that was needed to erase his feeble efforts. "Don't try and move. You might do yourself further injury. Not to mention that you're heavy medicated at the moment and would be more likely to fall off your bed than to climb."

 _Injured?_ It was the only part that made any sense in Shiro's mind. _What… what injury?_ Shiro couldn't remember getting injured. He couldn't recall being carted to the field hospital, but… there had been the explosion.

What had happened? He couldn't _remember_.

He must have spoken his thoughts because, though he couldn't recall asking, the medic spoke in reply. "You checked in at oh-six-hundred hours two mornings ago in a critical state," she said quietly, softly yet with the edge of formality to her words. "We've had to keep you under until we managed to get you stable."

"What happened to me?" Shiro actually heard himself ask the question this time, blinking up at the medic hazily. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. "What's wrong? What –?" He paused as the thought registered within him with a detached kind of panic. "What about the rest of my – my platoon? Is – my captain, was he -?"

Shiro didn't know what made him think they were in danger because he _couldn't remember_ what had happened. In many ways that was the most distressing part. Why couldn't he remember?

But the medic was touching his shoulder once more, her fingers squeezing gently. "They're fine. No severe casualties other than to yourself, and those that have acquired injuries have already been seen to." She gestured up the length of the tent and Shiro followed her finger to several occupied beds, the soldiers within propped up on their pillows. He couldn't make out who they were, but he was relieved that they seemed alright nonetheless.

"That's… that's good," he said, sinking back onto the thin pillow. "That's alright, then."

The medic offered him another small smile before continuing. "You arrived in a critical condition, Shirogane. We've stabilised you but, given your circumstances, you'll need to transfer to back to base. We'll have our specialists take a further look at you there, but… I'm sorry. There wasn't much we could do."

Her regretful tone was ominous and Shiro stared up at her with growing foreboding. "What… are you talking about? What's wrong?"

The medic gestured towards him, towards his right shoulder that was even then, in spite of his attempts to sit up, still tucked beneath the thin white sheet. "I'm sorry. We couldn't do anything to save it."

In a fumbling scramble, Shiro flipped the sheet down from his shoulder and dropped his gaze. He stared. And stared. And only after it gradually began to make sense did he close his eyes and squeeze them to try to rid himself of the sight he'd seen.

"I'm truly sorry, Shirogane," the medic murmured, all smile absented from her voice. "You have responded bravely and remarkably, but we'll be transferring you as soon as is possible. You should take this time to rest and recuperate. To regroup. There's nothing else that you could have…"

Shiro tuned out the medic's words. He didn't want to hear them. He couldn't let himself hear them anymore. The army was his life, had always been his dream, but now… with his arm like _that_ …

What possible use did he have now? What function could he possibly serve to the army he'd so fought to be a part of?

The thought was horribly depressing and Shiro didn't speak another word before he was transferred out.

* * *

_08/09 – 09.12pm_

_BlackLion007 has entered the chatroom._

_BlackLion007: Hello, Princess._

_BlackLion007: I'd be more than willing to listen to you._

_BlackLion007: Although forgive me if I interrupt. I have a tendency to engage in two-way conversations._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, but of course! What kind of a conversation wouldn't involve the participation of two people?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Hello, Sir Knight, it's a pleasure to meet you._

_BlackLion007: Knight? That seems a little too honourable for me, I'm afraid._

_PrincessOfAltea: Not in the least. You spoke to me when I asked and that was what I needed most. But would you prefer something else?_

_BlackLion007: Something else?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Warrior? Champion? Paladin, perhaps? I always liked that one._

_BlackLion007: That's quite a range of possibilities you've given me there. Tell me, Princess, are you perhaps a walking thesaurus?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Well, I'm not sure about that, but I do try._

_PrincessOfAltea: Do you have a preference?_

_BlackLion007: Do we need a name?_

_PrincessOfAltea: But of course we do. How else will we refer to ourselves?_

_BlackLion007: Well in that case, I wouldn't presume to steal the honour of our naming from you, Princess. You are, after all, the instigator._

_PrincessOfAltea: The instigator? Hm… I'll have to consider that._

_PrincessOfAltea: But I suppose I'll take this as an opportunity. You will be my paladin. Yes, I think that has a nice ring to it._

_BlackLion007: I live to serve, Princess. Your word is my command._

_PrincessOfAltea: I don't really have a command. I just want to talk. And listen. Is that alright?_

_BlackLion007: Of course._

_BlackLion007: I think for me that sounds just about perfect._

_BlackLion007: Forgive me if I sound dramatic, but I think that's exactly what I need right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, what do you think of the first chapter? I hope you liked it, because I've got a whole heap to come! Please let me know your thoughts - liked it, didn't (hopefully not) - and leave a comment if you get the chance. Thank you!


	2. Greetings, Fellow Paladins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A longer chapter this time, guys! I hope you enjoy it.  
> Thank you so much to izz bizz and broodyblue (chattybluebird) for your comments last time. It was so lovely to hear from you and to hear your thoughts. If anyone has a second, I would really appreciate any comments left. Thank you :)

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* * *

_08/09 – 10.01pm_

_BlackLion007: Is it just us, then?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Is it just us?_

_BlackLion007: Just the six of us? Isn't this an open chatroom?_

_PrincessOfAltea: It is, I think, but it's also encouraged to refer to your allocated room. Besides, Voltron is fairly new and covert, from what I understand. Not to mention that this chatoom is restricted to, what, New York City do you think?_

_BlackLion007: How does that work, exactly? Can you do that? I didn't know you could do that._

_DiffWitch: You can do that._

_DiffWitch: Of course you can, although there are ways to circumvent it._

_DiffWitch: Naturally._

_PrincessOfAltea: Hello, DiffWitch. It's so lovely to meet you. For a moment I thought it would simply be myself and BlackLion007 who chose to speak. We hardly need an audience of listeners._

_DiffWitch: Sorry._

_DiffWitch: It just felt awkward interrupting._

_DiffWitch: Or speaking for the first time._

_DiffWitch: I'm not used to that._

_PrincessOfAltea: Well, this is a safe zone. Say what you would and nothing will be abused._

_DiffWitch: Safe zone? That sounds a little bit idealistic._

_Sharpshooter18: Wow, DiffWitch, barely eight lines in and you've already revealed what a pessimist you are._

_Red: I think realist is a better word for it._

_DiffWitch: Thanks, Red. Like-mindedness for the win._

_Sharpshooter18: Yes, thanks, Red. Now we have two pessimists in the chatroom._

_Butterfingers: Is this really how we want to start off, guys? With pessimism and antagonism?_

_Butterfingers: Come on, how about we get through one conversation without it exploding._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you, Butterfingers. You took the words out of my mouth._

_Butterfingers: You're welcome, Princess._

_BlackLion007: How about we introduce ourselves, then? That's the way of most first conversations, isn't it?_

_DiffWitch: Online? Haven't you ever heard of stranger danger?_

_Red: How old are you that you're thinking about that?_

_DiffWitch: Intrusive questions? Urgh! Stranger danger!_

_Butterfingers: I think it was a rhetorical question._

_BlackLion007: I don't think there's anything wrong with precautions. Thanks for that, DiffWitch, we'll keep it in mind. No incriminating information exchanged, everyone._

_DiffWitch: See, in most people I would have thought you were being sarcastic with that thanks but…_

_Sharpshooter18: I get the impression that BlackLion is kind of a straight man._

_DiffWitch: You and me both._

_Sharpshooter18: Oh look, we're bonding!_

_BlackLion007: Would you like to start us off, Princess? You are, after all, the instigator._

_Sharpshooter18: Yes, let the lady talk first!_

_DiffWitch: Hey, I resent that._

_Sharpshooter18: Shush. Wait your turn._

_PrincessOfAltea: There's not really that much to tell. I'm sure I would be rather boring when compared to most people. I'd much rather listen._

_Red: Didn't you ask to have someone listen to you?_

_Red: Wasn't that what you started the chat for?_

_Red: I'm confused._

_Butterfingers: *pats shoulder* :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Look, you can't leave us with that, Princess. Just a general rundown – interests, hobbies, etc._

_Sharpshooter18: Do you work? What's your passion?_

_DiffWitch: Stranger danger. Careful, Princess._

_Red: Is this twenty questions? Would you ask this of everyone or are you just flirting._

_Butterfingers: Getting in early, Sharpshooter18?_

_Sharpshooter18: What can I say, I'm a ladies man._

_Red: Wonderful._

_Sharpshooter18: You know, just because I can't hear you doesn't mean I can't detect that sarcasm._

_Red: What sarcasm?_

_DiffWitch: *high fives*_

_BlackLion007: Alright, guys, what happened to playing it nice?_

_BlackLion007: Princess? You don't have to share if you don't want to. I'm not that familiar with chatrooms so I don't know what's considered routine. Just say what you'd like._

_PrincessOfAltea: Neither am I, to be truthful. But alright, here goes._

_PrincessOfAltea: If I was going to introduce myself properly, I'd begin by saying that I was born and raised in Manhattan and though I went to Cornell University in Ithaca, my place of employ is now in the research department of the university on New York's Broad Street where I've been working for nearly five years. I like… mice, I suppose? I enjoy studying them. I study psychology, you see, but I also think they are very cute. I don't have terribly many hobbies other than perhaps horse riding? I haven't ridden for some time, however._

_Butterfingers: Wow!_

_BlackLion007: That's very impressive._

_DiffWitch: I suddenly feel a lot less satisfied with my own accomplishments. But wait, why mice?_

_Sharpshooter18: I'm in love. Is it possible to fall in love after exchanging no actual words with someone? Because I think so. I think I'm in love._

_PrincessOfAltea: Is it really that exceptional? I don't feel like it is._

_Sharpshooter18: You clearly aren't seeing yourself for the wonder that you are, Princess. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?_

_DiffWitch: What makes you think the Princess is a girl, exactly?_

_Red: A place like this? What does that make the rest of us, Sharpshooter?_

_Sharpshooter18: I feel like you two are ganging up on me._

_DiffWitch: *high fives*_

_Sharpshooter18: Stop high fiving, you two._

_Red: I'm not._

_DiffWitch: I feel betrayed._

_Sharpshooter18: So you should. Now you know what it feels like._

_Butterfingers: Don't worry, buddy. I've got your back._

_Sharpshooter18: Butters, you're my new best friend._

_Butterfingers: …_

_Butterfingers: Did you just name me after a character from South Park?_

_Sharpshooter18: Maybe._

_Butterfingers: I like it. He's the only innocent amongst them all._

_DiffWitch: Cleary you've never watched South Park properly, then. Butters is insane._

_Sharpshooter18: Are we bonding over South Park now?_

_PrincessOfAltea: What is South Park?_

_Sharpshooter18: …_

_Butterfingers: …_

_DiffWitch: …_

_Red: It's a stupid cartoon._

_Sharpshooter18: Stupid! How dare you!_

_Butterfingers: Oh, my soul!_

_DiffWitch: Outrageous! Even if it is accurate, you don't have to sound so sincere._

_BlackLion007: How would it be possible to tell if Red is being sincere? Is there a way to attach tone to texted words?_

_DiffWitch: Much to my distress, there is not._

_DiffWitch: I'm thinking of trying to write a program for it, actually, though I haven't decided how to go about it._

_Butterfingers: Cool. Are you a coder?_

_DiffWitch: You couldn't guess that from my name?_

_Butterfingers: Maybe some people couldn't, but… Point._

_Red: Aren't we doing this 'introducing ourselves' thing anymore?_

_Sharpshooter18: Why? Keen to revel us all in the impressiveness of your very being?_

_Red: No._

_Red: I just want to know who I'm talking to._

_Butterfingers: I'm sensing a potentially sensitive topic here, so…_

_Red: It's not sensitive._

_DiffWitch: Stranger danger_

_Red: Exactly._

_Red: Exactly?_

_DiffWitch: You're welcome._

_PrincessOfAltea; Goodness, I almost can't keep up with all of this back and forth. I thought I was a fast typist but I'm beginning to second-guess myself._

_BlackLion007: Don't worry, Princess, I'm in much the same boat._

_Butterfingers: You can go first, then, BlackLion :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, my vote's for the Lion King._

_DiffWitch: Are you going to give nicknames to everyone? Really?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, that could be fun!_

_DiffWitch: Please don't encourage him._

_Sharpshooter18: Of course I am. Butters has already got his, Princess is the Princess, and Lion King is just obvious. Or would you prefer Bond?_

_BlackLion007: What makes you think I like James Bond?_

_Butterfingers: Not gonna say it._

_Butterfingers: I'm not gonna take the bait._

_Sharpshooter18: DiffWitch, you can be Wiccan, because, you know, witch and all._

_DiffWitch: Wow, that's original._

_Red: I challenge you._

_DiffWitch: Ha!_

_Sharpshooter18: You have literally the most boring name in existence._

_Sharpshooter18: Why would you choose such a boring name?_

_Red: I like red._

_Sharpshooter18: No sh*t, really?_

_Sharpshooter18: Give me time._

_Butterfingers: We're getting off topic again. Come on, I want to hear about the Lion King. Or Bond. Or 007 or however you want to be called._

_PrincessOfAltea: How about BlackLion? That is his name, after all._

_BlackLion007: You can call me whatever you'd like. I don't mind._

_BlackLion007: But I'm afraid I'm not all that interesting either._

_BlackLion007: I grew up travelling, my father jumping all over the place most of the time. He was in Japan as most of his family still lives there, and my mother and I would go and visit with him sometimes. I graduated with good enough grades, went to military school, and enlisted straight into the army after that. There's not much else to it._

_Butterfingers: Wow._

_Sharpshooter18: 'Not much else to it' he says. Like he didn't just leave us all in his dust._

_Red: Were you a soldier? Or an officer? Which division?_

_Sharpshooter18: Someone's got a fan. Twenty questions revisited._

_BlackLion007: I was in the infantry. I didn't want to train as an officer straight away._

_Red: But?_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, I'm sensing the 'but' there too._

_BlackLion007: But it's been recommended to me. Or at least it was._

_PrincessOfAltea: It was? Not anymore?_

_BlackLion007: No._

_BlackLion007: I don't think so anymore._

* * *

Shiro had always known he was going to be in the army. More than that, he'd always wanted to be. His father had been an officer and his mother a nurse with intentions of returning to active duty as soon as Shiro was old enough to take care of himself. An army family, as they were often called.

From the moment he'd first seen his parents adorned in their khaki's and really understood what it meant, Shiro had wanted it. He'd wanted to be a part of something bigger, something more, regardless of the fact that he knew he would be simply another number amongst thousands. Standing tall for his country, protecting others, placing himself and what strength he could muster in the line of fire so it could touch no one else… Shiro wanted that.

He hadn't gone through Officer Training. Shiro's father hadn't either, had instead worked his way up through the ranks from a soldier. Despite what his teachers at military school had suggested, Shiro wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. He wanted to make his father proud. His mother too, for she had always been of a humble sort. His mother had been an army nurse for thirty years and hadn't wanted for more. Just being able to help people – that was all his mother had ever aspired to.

When Shiro graduated from Advanced Specialist Training, when he'd been assigned to his first platoon alongside his fellow soldiers, it had been the proudest day of his life. Prouder still than when he'd topped the year in his school, because this was what he wanted. This had always been what he'd wanted.

It made it that much worse when, on a fierce and explosive mission, that dream had been torn from him alongside his arm.

Two weeks before, Shiro had been transferred back to base. Two weeks he'd had to acclimatise to the knowledge that he was being taken from the army and, the amputee that he now was, wouldn't be able to re-join one more until he was 'better' and something was 'done with the situation'. Two weeks and he'd barely been able to voice a word, except for when his commanding officer on base had come to his side and asked if he needed anything.

"Don't tell my parents," was all Shiro could say. "Please. Don't tell them."

His CO hadn't looked happy, but he'd agreed to hold his tongue. There wasn't a one in the entire base who didn't sympathise with Shiro for his loss and what it meant for his future. Even with prosthetics, should he choose that route, it would be a battle.

A week after returning to base, he'd been transferred to a hospital in New York. Given that he wasn't going to be returning to active duty, the unspoken request that he be sent back to his home city was afforded to him in due course. Shiro found himself allotted a bed for the duration of his rehabilitation, but he didn't know how long that would be. Until he was better? Shiro didn't know what better was. How could he be better after this? He knew that soldiers and civilians alike lost their lives on the warfront, but right now Shiro couldn't feel sympathy for those who had it worse than him. He couldn't even try to, not for the benefit of others and certainly not for himself. His entire life was falling apart.

He didn't complain, though, not even when asked by his doctor. "How are you today, Mr Shirogane?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you feeling any aches and pains?"

"No more than usual."

"Can we offer you anything? Any comforts? Anything you could possibly need?"

 _A new arm_ , Shiro thought to himself, but he didn't speak the bitter words. There were prosthetics he could get, but he couldn't bring himself to take a step down that route. Not with the… the _wall_ that stood between him and that possibility, the wall that forbade further passage. "No. Thank you."

His doctor nodded slowly, a very clear indication that he wasn't entirely convinced by the faux-sincerity of Shiro's words. Each day he visited was no different from that before. Shiro had to wonder what the point of his visits were. "Alright, then. If you need anything, please let us know."

"Thank you," Shiro murmured, and then the doctor left, drawing the curtains around Shiro's bed once more. And Shiro…

As he had done frequently of late, he turned back to the thin little laptop propped up on the wheelie table beside his bed. It was a strange feeling to type with one hand, and it made for slower work, but he managed. That little chatroom, the so named 'Voltron' that had been brought to life by a Princess who'd called him a paladin – at least there he could forget his worries for a time. There he could pretend he hadn't lost his arm, that as an infantry soldier his skills for civilian life weren't next to none. That he wasn't broken.

With the barest hint of a smile, Shiro flipped his computer open and, with the awkward fingers of his left hand, he began to type once more.

* * *

_PrincessOfAltea: Not anymore? Have you completed your service?_

_Butterfingers: Whoa, man, utter respect for you. Your commitment does you proud :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Did you drop out? Or did you have to stop._

_Sharpshooter18: 'Cause I thought you had to keep it up until you'd finished your term._

_Red: Do you like it?_

_Red: Would you like to have become an officer?_

_BlackLion007: Yes. Yes to that, Red._

_Sharpshooter18: Then why not go for it._

_DiffWitch: Alright, you nosy b*stards, how about you lay off a bit?_

_DiffWitch: Maybe he just doesn't want to tell you?_

_Sharpshooter18: Whoa, calm down, Wiccan. Don't get your panties in a twist._

_DiffWitch: You don't get to say a word about my panties. Besides, I'm a boxers kind of person._

_Red: Was that information necessary?_

_BlackLion007: Let's not fight, guys. Come on. DiffWitch, thanks for stepping in for me but I really don't mind. If anyone wants to ask me a question you're more than welcome to. I'm all ears._

_Sharpshooter18: Thanks, Daddy-O._

_Butterfingers: Wait, wasn't his nickname Lion King? Now I'm getting confused._

_Red: Just leave Sharpshooter to his nicknames. He can confuse himself._

_Sharpshooter18: I never get confused with nicknames._

_PrincessOfAltea: I've never worn boxers before. Are they comfortable?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Sorry, I just realised I'm a few lines behind._

_DiffWitch: That's okay. And yes, they are. You don't know what you're missing._

_Butterfingers: Is it your turn now, DiffWitch?_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, give us your introductory spiel, Wiccan._

_DiffWitch: Don't call me that._

_Sharpshooter18: Why? I think it suits you._

_Red: Don't call DiffWitch that._

_Sharpshooter18: You just love to antagonise me, don't you, Red?_

_Red: It's called being respectful._

_Sharpshooter18: Also known as being antagonistic._

_BlackLion007: What are you interested in, DiffWitch? I'm assuming computers are your thing?_

_Butterfingers: Nice diffusion, BlackLion :)_

_DiffWitch: I love computers._

_DiffWitch: That's it. That's my life._

_Sharpshooter18: Are you a gamer by any chance?_

_DiffWitch: …_

_DiffWitch: Maybe._

_Sharpshooter18: Meaning yes?_

_DiffWitch: Is there something wrong with that?_

_Sharpshooter18: No. What's your favourite? Do you have a favourite? Are you a Final Fantasy kind of person or more of a button masher?_

_DiffWitch: I'm a Dark Souls kind of person._

_Sharpshooter18: I like your taste. My esteem for you has just increased exponentially._

_Red: Have you played Bloodborne? They're pretty similar._

_Sharpshooter18: Ohmygod, Red's human too._

_Sharpshooter18: I offer a point in your favour too, Red._

_PrincessOfAltea: These are all computer games? I don't know much about games._

_Butterfingers: It might be a little confusing unless you play them._

_BlackLion007: Don't worry, Princess, I don't really know that much about them either. I think I kind of missed that phase growing up._

_Sharpshooter18: Ohmygod, you two are like the mature parents out of the lot of us._

_PrincessOfAltea: Parents? Are you calling me old?_

_Sharpshooter18: No! No, not at all! I would never say such a thing._

_DiffWitch: Sharpshooter, do you by any chance have a problem with sticking your foot in things?_

_Sharpshooter18: No._

_Sharpshooter18: Not usually._

_Sharpshooter18: Wait, weren't we talking about you? Where's your spiel, Wiccan?_

_DiffWitch: Again, don't call me that._

_DiffWitch: And there's not much to tell._

_Butterfingers: Is everyone going to say that? Surely not everyone can have 'nothing to tell'._

_Red: Everyone's life looks more interesting from the outside._

_BlackLion007: Thank you, Red. That was very profound of you._

_Sharpshooter18: I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not._

_Butterfingers: I'm pretty sure BlackLion is sincere about everything :)_

_BlackLion007: I try to be._

_BlackLion007: Did you have anything to say, DiffWitch?_

_DiffWitch: I just like computers. And learning computer languages. But that's about all there is to me._

_Butterfingers: I don't believe that. Just the fact that you like computers and learn languages means you're interesting._

_Butterfingers: Do you write programs? Do you build your own computers?_

_Butterfingers: Or, you know, playing games is cool too. Do you just enjoy playing games?_

_Sharpshooter18: Maybe live on social media? I commiserate._

_DiffWitch: Yes._

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes what?_

_DiffWitch: Yes. To all of that. Program, build, game. I like computers._

_Butterfingers: That's so cool! How many computers have you built?_

_DiffWitch: I've got my three that I use pretty much for everything._

_DiffWitch: But my favourite one is my Hulk._

_Sharpshooter18: You have three computers?_

_Sharpshooter18: Sh*t. I have a laptop that I share with my little sister._

_Red: I've never had my own computer._

_DiffWitch: !_

_DiffWtich: How do you live? Both of you?!_

_Red: What do you mean?_

_Sharpshooter18: My sister and I share._

_Red: I don't really need it. There's computers at school._

_DiffWitch: It's not about needing._

_DiffWitch: How can you not_

_DiffWitch: I live with my_

_DiffWitch: How do you_

_Butterfingers: I think we broke DiffWitch, guys._

_Butterfingers: I guess you really do like computers._

_DiffWitch: Of course I do. There's nothing else to me. I'm a computer nerd and proud._

_BlackLion007: I doubt that's all there is to you._

_PrincessOfAltea: It's just like Red said. You probably don't realise what it is that's so special about you._

_DiffWitch: No._

_DiffWitch: There's nothing._

_DiffWitch: I'm nothing special._

* * *

Pidge had always been nothing special. She came from a family of the exceptional, of the noticeable, of the 'perfect'. Her mom was a high-class lawyer, a partner in her firm, and was so good, had been loyal for so long, that she basically had a run of the place to pick and choose what she wanted. Her dad was a programmer and spent most of his time in the computing world and with his eyes locked on computer screens she could swear they were on the verge of turning square. He wasn't part of a business or firm. He had his own business. Holt IT had exploded in size and success since it had been formed nearly twenty years ago.

And her brother. Matt was fantastic. He was smart, likeable, funny, good at sports. He was everyone's friend, and Pidge's best friend most of all. For a kid who was hesitant to the point of shy, Matt had been her grounding rock in times of trial.

Pidge wasn't special. She didn't think she was anything exceptional in the least. She liked computers, and though that like had grown over the years into a hobby that became fanatical, she didn't think she was anything extraordinary. Pidge was smart, but not as smart as her mom or dad. She wasn't as well liked as Matt – wasn't – well-liked at all, really – and she wasn't good at sports. She wasn't a _people_ person, and in many ways she thought that her failing in the social department was what saddened her mom the most.

Pidge wasn't good enough. Regardless of her grades, she was never good enough.

Such became only more apparent as her childhood progressed into adolescence. Pidge's parents divorced and her dad, who she'd always been closest to out of the two of them, left. He kept in touch, and they shared their love of computers, but Pidge hadn't been enough to keep him around. She hadn't been good enough. He'd had to move to LA for work, stepping into the big seat of the new base he was setting up there. Pidge hadn't seen him in nearly a year.

Pidge's mom grew distant, throwing herself into her work. She became a workaholic, or at least more of one than she had been before. And whenever she was home, there would be The Picking. She would pick at things, and always pertaining to Pidge.

"Katie, why is the lounge a mess?" "It's not a mess." "You're jacket and shoes are lying on the cushion. It's a mess. Clean it up."

"You haven't done your homework yet?" "Not yet." "Why? Katie, do you homework. I don't care if it's not due for a week, you'll do it now."

"Why don't you ever go out with any friends? And no, I don't want anyone brought over, but you could always go to the mall, surely."

"Is this an eighty-per cent on your essay? Katie, I know you can do better than that. You've shown me you can. Don't be such a slacker."

"Why you put such effort into building those monstrosities of computers I'll never know. They look like something someone threw out in the garbage, Katie."

And finally, perhaps the worst, "Why do you have to wear clothes like that? You were such a pretty little girl, always decked up in dresses and bows. What happened? Sometimes I think you don't even care what you look like anymore."

Pidge cared. She cared probably more than her mom realised. But what her mom didn't understand… how she dressed? There was more to it than that. And that, to Pidge, was her greatest failing. She would never be her mom's picture-perfect daughter, the prissy girl the epitome of femininity, because she couldn't be. That wasn't her. She couldn't be because –

"Katie!"

Pidge flinched as her mom's voice seeped through her door, managing to pervade the headphones that she wore to muffle just such calls. Her mom always had a way of pervading such mufflers somehow.

Shrugging the headphones from her ears and sparing a glance for the chat in pause right before her, she slipped to the doorway and poked her head out.

"Yes, Mom?"

"Do you know what time it is?" Her mom replied. "It's a school night. I don't want you staying up past eleven when you have school tomorrow. Honestly, the interview I had with your English teacher should have been indicative enough. She says you look 'tired and detached'."

"Sorry," Pidge said, more to herself than to her mom.

Her mom, naturally, heard her anyway. "Don't be sorry. Just sort it out. You have ten minutes before bed."

 _The time I ever actually go to bed at eleven…_ Pidge thought with a shake of her head. _You really don't know me at all, Mom_.

Maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe she was being selfish, even, in thinking that her mom didn't understand her. Every teenager went through such a crisis, didn't they? That their parents didn't understand them and that they were different? But Pidge… Glancing down at herself, at the baggy pyjamas she wore and that her mom despised because they made her look 'like a slob' – because of course, she had to dress to the nines to go to bed – Pidge shook her head. She thought that maybe she was just a little different.

With an acknowledging reply to her mom, Pidge closed her door and crossed back to her computers. She dropped into her chair and shrugged her headphones back on, turning her attention to the central monitor and the chat dotted across it before a glance at her laptop on her left gave her pause.

She felt a smile spread across her lips. _Matt._

Pidge's fingers were darting across the keyboard in an instant. _Matt! You're back! When did you get in? I haven't heard from you in weeks!_

Matt was Pidge's favourite person in the world. He was a lot of people's favourite for that matter, but Pidge had him first. He was her best friend, the only person that truly _knew_ her, and he accepted her for who and what she was, intellectual deficiencies and otherwise. He was the perfect child who had gone into the army.

 _Like BlackLion_ , Pidge thought. She hadn't meant to snap at the rest of the chatroom, but she'd always been one to grow defensive of soldiers. No one knew what they were going through but them.

Matt replied in an instant. _Hey, Pidge! I just got in today._

_So the first thing you're doing is talking to me?_

_Of course. Why wouldn't it be? How's it been? How's mom been?_

Pidge bit her lip, smothering the urge to blurt out profanities. Her mom had been on edge lately and particularly picky because of it. She had a new case she was working on and that always left her harsher than usual. Pidge often regretted that it was just the two of them in their big, open apartment together.

_She's been alright. Just normal._

_Have you spoken to her yet? I don't mean to push, but I think it would be good to try. Just so you have someone to talk to when I'm not around, even if it is Mom._

Pidge huffed a sigh. Matt was the only one who really knew about Pidge. Who understood her even a little bit. And yet how – _how_ – could she possibly talk about _this_ with her mom? She was already exasperated enough that Pidge wasn't her perfect daughter.

How could Pidge explain to her mom that sometimes she wasn't her daughter at all?

* * *

_Butterfingers: Look, so I don't mean to tell you you're wrong, but_

_Butterfingers: Everyone's special in their own way._

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Butterfingers: My mum always used to tell me that everyone is born with their own uniqueness :)_

_Butterfingers: To me, computers sounds like yours._

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Butters, you've got to branch out with your use of emojies. You're going to give me an aneurism._

_PrincessOfAltea: I think they're cute._

_DiffWitch: Are you by any chance an incessantly smiley person in real life, Butterfingers?_

_Butterfingers: Maybe?_

_Butterfingers: Mom always said I was a smiley person._

_Sharpshooter18: So now you've tided it over to your messaging. Brach out, man! Branch out!_

_PrincessOfAltea: I think they're cute._

_Red: We know._

_Sharpshooter18: Hey, don't be a d*ck about it. She's allowed to repeat herself._

_Red: I know. I was just saying that we already knew. It's a statement of fact._

_Sharpshooter18: …_

_Sharpshooter18: I'm getting mixed readings on you._

_BlackLion007: So long as no one is openly insulting or bullying others I think it's alright to simply make statements._

_BlackLion007: We want to keep this nice and friendly, don't we, guys? That's what the whole idea of Voltron is, isn't it? A friendly group of friends?_

_DiffWitch: Is it possible to overuse the word friend?_

_DiffWitch: You're definitely the dad friend, BlackLion._

_DiffWitch: I've decided I like you._

_Butterfingers: I like you too. You remind me of my mom._

_Sharpshooter18: You have a mom complex, my friend._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm hoping it's not weird._

_Red: You've made it weird by saying that._

_PrincessOfAltea: Why would it be weird? Am I missing something._

_BlackLion007: Please don't say it. I agree with Red. You'll make it weird if you say it._

_Butterfingers: (-_-)_

_Butterfingers: I don't have an Oedipus Complex, guys._

_Butterfingers: Not cool._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh._

_PrincessOfAltea: OH._

_PrincessOfAltea: No, I doubt you do. You're clearly very close to your mother, though._

_Butterfingers: Yeah. I grew up with just my mom, mostly. It's been the two of us for ages except for my gran, but that's never been a problem. We've always just been close, did practically everything together. Every Sunday we used to do this bake-off game where we'd cook up a whole heap of goodies and then just take them around to the neighbours to share._

_PrincessOfAltea: That's so sweet, Butterfingers. I envy the love you so clearly share with your mom._

_DiffWitch: It would be nice._

_BlackLion007: There are so few people that can profess truly profound affection for their parents these days. That's something very special._

_Butterfingers: My mom's the best person in the world. The second best is my Gran._

_DiffWitch: A family of strong female figures? I like it._

_Sharpshooter18: Do you make a point of openly stating everything you like?_

_DiffWitch: Well, it happens so rarely that I actually do, so I feel like I need to tell the world._

_Red: Agreed._

_Sharpshooter18: God, you two are such pessimists._

_Butterfingers: Yeah, you should try to look on the bright side. It makes life a lot easier and more enjoyable that way._

_DiffWitch: Let me guess. Your mom told you to do that?_

_Butterfingers: No._

_Butterfingers: I worked that out on my own._

* * *

For as long as Hunk could remember, it had been he and his mom.

His dad had been around. He knew he was, but Hunk rarely saw him. That never bothered him because he had his mom. His gran too, and she was one of the bossiest but also the kindest people in the world. For much of Hunk's life he lived solely with his mom and gran. It was perfect just how it was.

There was nothing exceptional in Hunk's childhood. It was normal. Mediocre. Good, but nothing exceptional. He went to elementary school, discovered a love of science and building things, and in middle school and high school explored that love through physics and engineering. The first year he went to the National Invention Convention-slash-Entrepreneurship Expo had been the most wonderful thing in the world. His mom had made a special trip out of it for just the two of them.

Hunk had his friends. His school friends, his neighbourhood pals, the kids down at Larry's that hung around and picked through the scraps the old hardware store owner left lying around to build their own contraptions. It was perhaps the best thing in the world when Hunk had first been allowed to actually _touch_ things in Larry's store. When Hunk had grown older, when his mom had come down to the shops to watch him work or to see what he'd built and inevitably got roped into a discussion with Larry who seemed intent on chattering her ear off, Hunk had teased her that Larry 'liked' her.

Looking back on it, that his mom had always brushed off his words with a laugh and a reply of, "You know you're father's always been the only one for me," should have been an indication.

When Hunk had just turned sixteen, his dad died. Hunk hadn't seen his dad in nearly a year, which wasn't unusual. He barely knew the man, and though he was amiable enough on the occasions they did meet and Hunk was happy to see that he made his mom happy, he didn't have any particular attachment to him. It was nice to see him, to recognise in the man where he got his height from and the broadness of his shoulders, but other than there was little attachment between the two of them. Hunk's dad was kind enough, but he didn't know Hunk either. He always came to visit for Hunk's mom. Always his mom.

On top of that, he didn't need to be a genius to realise that his dad wasn't an upstanding person. They were never bothered by anyone but the stray graffiti dogs and passers-by that launched projectiles onto their lawn, but that much was apparent. His mom would always mutter to herself after he left for his visits that he'd 'wind up dead' someday, but Hunk knew she never really meant it. Evidence of such was apparent when she received the phone call to say that it had really happened.

Hunk's mom was a strong person. She was fierce, could take care of herself, and at the restaurant she worked at, though she was only a waitress and a hired hand at that, it was clear who ran the shop. But when she received that phone call Hunk saw his mom shatter.

Everything went downhill after that. Hunk had never fully appreciated the understanding that good mental health and stability translated to physical good health too. The reverse, he found, similarly applied. With her heart broken, Hunk's mum seemed to crumble beneath her sagging will to live.

It hurt. It was the most painful thing Hunk had ever experienced because it was the first time he came to realise that he wasn't enough. For his mom, just himself wasn't enough. She'd needed his dad, too.

Her first stroke hit her less than a year later. It had come from nowhere and seemed to shake her even worse for the sorry state she was already in. She lost the use of her right arm and the muscles in the right side of her face.

Hunk's gran had been horrified. She was a strong woman too, but to see her daughter struggle through first the loss of her husband and then this? Hunk had always thought her hard and bossy, but he was afforded a glimpse reality with that moment. His gran wasn't a young woman anymore. She couldn't handle it alone, couldn't struggle to push a smile onto her face and care for his mom.

That was when Hunk realised that, when his mom couldn't smile, when his Gran couldn't either, he would have to be the one that smiled for them. Life sucked after what happened to his mom but he would damn well smile through it.

The second stroke was worse. His mom lost the use of her legs, could barely talk, and Hunk was resorted to wheeling her around wherever she went. She'd long ago had to stop her work, so Hunk, dropping out of school, had taken up a job in her place. He didn't mind. He liked the bakery where he spent most of his early mornings, and it was good hours for him. He could be home to look after his mom before too late most mornings, and his boss was always lenient when he needed to rush out.

The third, however… the third just made it so much worse. Hunk hadn't realised how much he'd come to cherish the slurred, garbled words his mom managed to force from her tongue after her second stroke until she couldn't speak them anymore. Hunk still smiled, still fought to keep positives because at least she wasn't dead – she _wasn't dead_ – but it was hard. It was so hard.

Helping his mom into her bed – it was more of a lift than any actual help, for she couldn't move by herself anymore – Hunk tucked the sheets around her tenderly. She stared up at him with dark, blank eyes, and Hunk didn't even know if there was any real recognition in them anymore. Did she know who he was? Was she still thinking behind her silence and stillness? Hunk had to hope she was. He couldn't retain his positivity otherwise.

"Good night, Mom," he said, leaning forwards to drop a kiss on her forehead. "Gran will be here tomorrow morning for when you wake up, alright?"

He didn't expect a reply, but Hunk paused for the duration one would take anyway. Then he smiled down at his mom, readjusted the blankets slightly once more, and stepped backwards from the bed. "I love you. Sleep tight."

Then he retreated, and only when he stepped outside of his mom's door and eased it closed until barely a crack remained open did he allow himself to sag slightly. To drop his smile. To regret.

Work would be starting in three hours, so Hunk took the time to rest. He wouldn't sleep – he tended to sleep in the mornings when he got back from the bakehouse – but he took himself to their little living room and slumped onto the couch with a sigh nonetheless. The house was quiet, eerily so without the sounds of his own voice and his bustling as he worked around his mom. Hunk preferred it in the mornings when his gran was there; even when she was in a sombre mood his gran was a presence that, when he was awake constantly spoke her thoughts. Hunk was unsure whether it was because she demanded the attention of not just everyone in the house but all in the street or whether she was simply growing deaf.

Hunk didn't mind. He liked his gran's noise. Maybe he should ask her if she wanted to move in again? She was attached to the house she and Hunk's Pops had lived in, but his Pops had been dead for years so… maybe now…?

A buzz from his pocket drew his fingers towards his phone. Hunk flicked the screen open and found himself smiling at the little lion symbol that flashed up before him. Voltron was a little strange, a little quirky, an App he probably wouldn't have taken any interest in if he wasn't a little desperate himself. But though they had really talked all that much just yet, Hunk thought it was cute. A person to talk to. A person to listen. He liked that.

As he scanned through the variably coloured messages, Hunk didn't keep silent as he had at the beginning of his membership He didn't have to. If nothing else, talking to people who lived only across the city, even people he'd never met before, was better than the silence of his house. Hunk could look for the positives in that situation, anyway.

He could. He did.

* * *

_PrincessOfAltea: I think that's a very good mantra to live by, Butterfingers._

_BlackLion007: You seem like a very wise person._

_Butterfingers: *blushes*_

_Butterfingers: Stop it, guys._

_Red: Are you not good at receiving compliments?_

_Sharpshooter18: Gone on, say it like it is, Red._

_Red: I just did._

_Sharpshooter18: I know._

_Red: You're weird._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm the weird one?_

_BlackLion007: Alright, you two. Take it down a notch._

_PrincessOfAltea: Is this an argument? I hope it's not. It would be nice if we could all get along._

_DiffWitch: Yep. Definitely the parents._

_Butterfingers: I know, right?_

_Sharpshooter18: Red started it. He's being deliberately provocative._

_DiffWitch: How do you know he's a he?_

_Sharpshooter18: I just know it. As a guy I can tell these sort of things._

_DiffWitch: Riiiiiight._

_Butterfingers: Is it your turn now, Sharpshooter?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, I think it would be yours. Or Red's._

_Sharpshooter18: Me first. I call dibs._

_DiffWitch: Do you by any chance have siblings?_

_Sharpshooter18: Hit the nail on the head there, Wiccan. I do. I have six._

_Butterfingers: Six? Holy hell!_

_DiffWitch: That explains the incessant irritation._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm going to overlook that because I'm such an understanding guy. But in short – the name's Sharpshooter, eighteen years old, major league soccer player, strikingly handsome and a master with a blade._

_Butterfingers: Major league?_

_Red: Strikingly handsome?_

_DiffWitch: Eighteen? You're eighteen so you put that number in your name? What happens when you turn nineteen?_

_Sharpshooter18: Firstly, yes to major league. Or at least the major league around our parts. We're pretty renowned in the neighbourhood._

_Butterfingers: What does that mean, 'your parts'?_

_Sharpshooter18: Secondly, yes. I've been praised for my handsomeness by many a swooning lady, and nearly as many swooning gents._

_Red: Bullsh*t._

_Sharpshooter18: And thirdly, yes. And there's nothing wrong with using 'eighteen'. It will serve as a reminder to how old I was when this first started._

_Sharpshooter18: I might be getting ahead of myself, everyone, but I'm hoping this is a long-term thing. It's kind of cool, especially since everyone lives sort of close to everyone else._

_Sharpshooter18: Makes New York seem just a little smaller, doesn't it?_

_BlackLion007: Well, you certainly seen enthusiastic, and I think that's the most important thing :)_

_Butterfingers: Mutual smilies! :) :) :)_

_Butterfingers: I'm so proud, BlackLion._

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm sorry, Sharpshooter, but did you say master of the blade? That sounds terribly dangerous._

_DiffWitch: Yes, do tell, Sharpshooter. I would so love to hear about this 'blade'._

_Sharpshooter18: Okay, now you make me sound like a twat._

_Red: Hm._

_Sharpshooter18: Shut up, Red. Daddy-O, everyone's picking on me._

_BlackLion007: Guys, come on now._

_Butterfingers: Oooo, I can feel the look of disapproval from here._

_PrincessOfAltea: Really, though, Sharpshooter. I hope it's nothing reckless. You shouldn't hurt yourself._

_Sharpshooter18: Well._

_Sharpshooter18: It's not really hurting anyone._

* * *

Lance had been born an only child. An only child, and that was just the way he liked it.

Except that when he was two years old, he got a baby sister. Then he liked that even more. Isabel was the best thing to ever happen to him.

Lance's parents had always wanted to have a swarm of kids. Apparently it was one thing – one of many things – that they'd shared and what had let to their eventual yet inevitable marriage. They were smitten with one another, or so every one of Lance's numerous relatives had said. They always had been. High school sweethearts, apparently. It would have been cute if it wasn't _his_ parents that it happened to. Thinking of them both like that… Lance still couldn't quite feel comfortable with the image in his head.

When Mika came along nearly five years after Isabel, Lance had been overjoyed. Another sister! And this one actually seemed inclined to play with him, too. Isabel had been about as opposite to Lance as possible from the get-go. His mamá had said she could tell Izzy would be different because she didn't cry nearly as much as Lance had when he was a baby. Allegedly, Lance had been quite the screamer, something that his mamá still teased him about because he'd supposedly retained his vocality into his teenage years.

Then there was Janey, three years after Mika, and though Lance loved her just as much as he did his other sisters – when they weren't trying to kill each another, that was – he began to realise that their family was… it was big. Then Harper appeared another four years later, and at fourteen Lance had grown to understand that most kids his age didn't have baby sisters, or quite so many. There wasn't anything wrong with it exactly, but there was just…

There was a lot of them.

Lance's mamá had already stopped work by that stage. It was simply too difficult to maintain a household of five children, most of which were in school and needed running picking up and dropping off at firs the school then the bus stops before they were old enough to walk themselves. Lance's papá had to keep up his own work both because he had his own shop and he had to support them; Lance's mamá didn't really have a choice, though she said she never regretted it. She claimed she'd never really liked her old job anyway. Besides, though Harper was a good kid, she needed to be afforded her own due attention. Harper wasn't quite as quiet or as well-behaved as Izzy had been. The tiredness that seemed to settle on Lance's mamá's shoulders grew only more pronounced that year.

Or at least Lance had thought it was Harper that had made her tired. It wasn't. Or at least it wasn't just that. Barely more than a year after Harper was born, Lance realised his mamá was pregnant again. Before Harper was two, he got his first little brother. Then his second little brother. Twins hadn't exactly been on the table of his expectations.

Regardless of what his parents named them, to Lance his brothers would always be Ditz and Dee Dee. He didn't know where the names had come from but they seemed to stick, and all of Lance's sisters climbed onto the bandwagon and used them too. His parents didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Ditz and Dee Dee was simply what they were called.

They were good kids, the two of them. They really were, at least most of the time. It was just that they had a whole other six siblings, and Harper was barely walking herself. It was the first time that Lance really considered that maybe his parents had been a bit too hasty with their desire to have quite so many children.

At sixteen, Lance truly understood that. He hadn't realised that their savings had been growing thin, but when soccer season came around his papá had drawn him aside with a solemn expression.

"Lance, I'm so sorry for this, but you won't be able to. Not this year. I'm sorry, we just can't afford it."

Lance didn't really understand what that meant at first. They weren't poor, or at least not to his understanding. Sure, the phone he'd been given when he was fourteen – and finally, because everyone else had one at school and it was almost embarrassing to be so out of the loop – was a little old and a little beaten, but it worked well enough. And he had a computer that he shared with Izzy because they as the eldest needed it for school.

Except that he was wrong. He'd been ignorant, because though it was something that he loved so dearly, something that he desperately wanted to do, Lance couldn't play soccer anymore. Not with the club. Not with any kind of formality.

Before his seventeenth birthday, Lance had begun working at his papá's shop. It was simply as an apprentice at first, but then he filled the roll of those that his papá could no longer afford to pay. The shop did well enough itself, but Lance's papá was too kind. He had his regular clients, and the area that they lived in wasn't well-to-do enough that most of them could pay full price if they came frequently. Much of the time his papá gave them a discount or simply didn't request they pay at all.

Lance could have told him that they needed the money. He could have told him that they couldn't afford to let people simply not pay. Except that his papá had always been an altruistic person. No matter how far they fell, Lance didn't think he would ever _not_ be so kind.

Lance still went to school. He did because his parents told him it was important and they wanted what was best for him more than because he truly wanted to. But outside of that, outside of playing with the kids down at the half-soccer field every Saturday, he helped out at his dad's shop. If Lance could fill the place of just one person who required payment then he'd do it.

Dropping the drier onto his tray with a flick of the switch, Lance raked his hands through Jim's cropped hair. He was an older man, his locks thinning just a little, but Lance thought he'd done a pretty good job of it.

He grinned at Jim's reflection in the mirror and Jim beamed right back at him. "What're you thinking, Jimmy? Looking about right, do you think?"

Jim winked. "You've got your papá's gift, kid. Good on you."

Lance laughed with real gratitude. Cutting hair, working in a barbershop – it wasn't exactly what he'd seen himself doing. Lance had always been an active person and lived to be running and throwing himself into sports and activities, and stillness didn't suit him. Yet when people like Jim, who'd been coming to his papá's barbershop for as long as Lance could remember, told him such things, je couldn't help but feel an upwelling of pride flush through him. "Thanks, Jimmy."

Sweeping the cape from around Jim's neck and shaking the hair clippings onto the floor, Lance took a step back and swept an arm grandiosely to the side. "Looking dashing, Mr Morton, as ever. I think I've made you a younger man."

Jim laughed, rising to his feet. "Watch yourself, kid. Some people might take offence at that."

"From me? Never. I speak with utter praise and sincerity."

"Lance," his papá called from across the room as he directed Jim to the counter. Lance glanced over his shoulder to where his papá had paused behind a kid who looked about thirteen and thoroughly bored with his own haircutting experience. "You can go out on break after this if you'd like."

"Okay," Lance replied and, with a nod of acknowledgement at his papá's meaningful glance towards Jim, he checked him out at a discount price and waved him farewell. Lance himself drifted into the back room and flopped down onto the armchair that was the only surface uncluttered by boxes and half-stowed hairdressing products.

Closing his eyes briefly, Lance drew his gaze to the clock ticking overhead. Nearly six o'clock. His papá tended to keep the shop open until about seven on weeknights, and later if some extra clients arrived, so he still had at least an hour. Lance closed his eyes once more, rocking his head backwards on the armchair.

He didn't begrudge helping his dad out. He really didn't. And he didn't begrudge that he couldn't play club soccer anymore, that he didn't feel right asking his parents if he could when Ditz and Dee Dee were still in pull-ups and his mamá had resorted to simple rice dishes twice a week as she always did when their expenses grew too much. Lance couldn't ask his papá to pay him more than a thin allowance for helping out, and those he used for the necessities – for buying new school books, for getting replacement joggers, for grabbing a cheap dinner out on the nights his parents encouraged him to spend some time with his friends.

Lance didn't begrudge any of that, but sometimes… Sometimes it really was nice to escape from it all. Pulling his battered phone from his back pocket, Lance idly flicked open the little icon shaped in the silhouette of a lion. At least for this, for a time, he could get away from it. Lance could pretend that none of that shit, _none_ of it, was quite as bad as it was.

Just for a little while.

* * *

_Sharpshooter18: I help out at my papá's barbershop._

_DiffWitch: Ohmyf*ckinggod, you what?_

_BlackLion007: DiffWitch, don't be offensive._

_Butterfingers: That's so cool! So are you, like, a master barber or something?!_

_Sharpshooter18: You could say something like that._

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, you could._

_Sharpshooter18: You could._

_Red: Like Sweeney Todd._

_DiffWitch: Ha!_

_Sharpshooter18: Oi!_

_PrincessOfAltea: Wasn't he a fictional murderer?_

_DiffWitch: He was!_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh._

_PrincessOfAltea: Sharpshooter, I sincerely hope you don't slit anyone's throats._

_Sharpshooter18: I don't!_

_Sharpshooter18: F*ck, that is such a leap._

_DiffWitch: Didn't you just say you were a master of the blade?_

_Sharpshooter18: You know, Wiccan, I think you're being deliberately provocative too._

_DiffWitch: How could you tell?_

_Butterfingers: I'm with you on that one, Sharpshooter. I have a radar for that kind of thing. Not that I don't appreciate your wit, Diffwitch._

_DiffWitch: I appreciate your honestly in return._

_BlackLion007: Honesty is a key attribute of healthy living._

_BlackLion007: You really are wise, Butterfingers._

_Butterfingers: *blushes*_

_PrincessOfAltea: I do too! Everyone's been so wonderful and open to sharing._

_PrincessOfAltea: I wasn't sure when no one seemed eager to speak for that first week or so._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you so much, everyone._

_BlackLion007: We just have Red left._

_BlackLion007: Red? Would you like to introduce yourself?_

_Red: No._

_Sharpshooter18: Here we go._

_PrincessOfAltea: Sharpshooter, please._

_Sharpshooter18: Sorry._

_Butterfingers: :)_

_BlackLion007: Don't you want to say anything? We'd really love to hear more about you, Red._

_Red: No._

_DiffWitch: You could just be like me._

_DiffWitch: What do you like? Just one thing._

_Red: I don't like anything._

_Butterfingers: What about something that you're good at? It doesn't have to be something that big. I just bake._

_Sharpshooter18: You like baking? Awesome, man. I love eating._

_Butterfingers: Coincidence._

_Red: I'm not really good at anything either._

_PrincessOfAltea: I don't believe that. Like you said, you probably just don't realise it._

_BlackLion007: Or you don't have to say anything about yourself. Maybe just what you do with yourself. Are you at school? Do you have any brothers or sisters like Sharpshooter?_

_BlackLion007: Only what you're comfortable with. We just want to get to know you a little bit :)_

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Are you going to do that smiley every time?_

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Butterfingers: Red?_

_Red: …_

* * *

Mr and Mrs Kogane died on a snowy night in the middle of winter, what might have been around Christmas time but no one quite remembered. No one seemed to recall just when they'd died, only that it had happened and they'd left a child behind in the hands of an increasingly distressed babysitter.

Keith didn't have family. He'd never had any family other than his parents. His father had been estranged for marrying someone as unexceptional his mother, and his mother had been an orphan. When he grew old enough to understand that, Keith had often wondered if it was some kind of poetic justice that had found him orphaned at the age of four as well.

Keith was left with nothing but a knife-shaped pendant on a necklace as a testament to his parents. He didn't know where it had come from, couldn't remember when it had been given to him, but the little pendant with its purple stone became his most precious possession.

Getting put into the system hadn't done well by Keith. Or at least it hadn't in the long run. He'd been to foster homes. He'd shuttled between families. At first it hadn't been so bad, but then Keith had grown to realise that it wasn't a temporary state of being. That his parents really weren't coming back. That he wasn't ever going to see them again.

When he was six years old, Keith stopped speaking. He didn't know why and neither did any of the social workers or psychologists that he'd been forced to see as a result. He simply didn't want to talk. That was it.

Unfortunately, not talking had its detriments. People thought he was strange, that there was something wrong with him, that he was slow – or, when he proved to be smart through the evidence of his grades – that he was one of those 'smart kids that couldn't connect'. Keith didn't really know what that meant except that he was different and people didn't like him for it. He still didn't speak, though.

Or at least he didn't until, when he was eleven, he was placed with the D'Ascartes. They were a small family, modestly well-off and with only a son Keith's age who was their angel child. Tomas became Keith's best friend. It was because of Tomas that he started speaking again.

Keith and Tomas were inseparable. For a whole year, they went everywhere together. Keith had never had a friend quite like him; they told one another everything, went to school together, came home together, spent every afternoon helping one another with homework before diving playing games. Keith hadn't known just how good life could be until he'd met Tomas. Mr and Mrs D'Ascartes were kind enough, if perhaps a little distant, but Tomas was what truly made Keith's stay at their house memorable. It was only in hindsight that Keith realised that the D'Ascartes probably fostered him for Tomas' benefit more than his own.

That changed when he turned twelve. It changed when Tomas kissed him, when Keith had been surprised but not horrified and had kissed him back. It had changed when somehow word had gotten out about Tomas being 'queer' and that was apparently the worst crime in the world.

It changed when Tomas got attacked on their way home one afternoon and Keith leapt to his defence.

The other kids didn't come out of the confrontation well. There were three of them altogether, but though Tomas and Keith sported their own bruises and bloody noses it was those three boys that had stumbled away in flight, calling words of "Freak!" and "Crazy animal!" over their shoulders. Tomas had looked at Keith utterly terrified. Keith hadn't realised at that moment that it had been fear of Keith himself. He found that out later.

The D'Ascartes hadn't been happy. They were a quiet, calm, reserved family, and they didn't want a vicious rogue of a child, one that dove into fights, spending time with their son. They'd called up the social worker and demanded he be taken away. And Tomas…

Keith would always remember the expression on Tomas' face as he was walked out of the D'Ascartes' front door. They hadn't shared a word since the fight and Tomas hadn't seemed inclined to break his silence. He'd watched Keith leave with a solemn, guarded expression on his face, and he hadn't called the social workers to stop. Tomas, the boy who had been Keith's everything for an entire year, didn't care enough to stop him from being taken away.

Everything seemed to change for Keith after that. It wasn't any better or worse than it had been before the D'Ascartes, but simply different. He didn't stop talking again but he didn't speak all that much either. He didn't make friends, because they likely wouldn't stick around for long anyway. Why would they? What if they were like Tomas, the type of person to share his every secret, kiss him, and then cast him aside? Keith didn't want to risk that. Not again.

He attracted all the wrong kind of attention. Maybe it was his silences. Maybe it was the fact that he was a foster kid renowned for churning through the houses. Keith didn't know why, but fights seemed to find him. He wasn't good at fighting – or at least not at first. That had to change if he wanted to stop being beaten to a pulp.

Moving in with the Tulson family wasn't any different to any of the others. Sara and Peter themselves were kind enough, but Keith knew it wouldn't last long. It never did. He knew it with even more certainty when their eldest son Clyde, barely half a year Keith's junior, had taken an instant and very apparent dislike to him. From what Keith saw, whatever Clyde thought Olly thought too. He knew he wouldn't remain long at their house, not when Clyde and Olly disliked him so, if behind closed doors.

 _A few more months,_ was the thought that always hung on the edges of his awareness. _A few more months and I'm out of the system. Just a few more months…_

Slipping through the front door into the house, Keith paused with his head cocked for the barest sound. The house was dark, though he could see well enough from the light of the streetlamps. It was nearly eleven o'clock and, working a late shift at the local convenience store as he'd requested from his boss, Keith hoped he'd missed the point at which the house had retreated into sleep. Sara and Peter were of sensible people; they sent Olly to bed before nine, Clyde at ten, and followed themselves shortly after. Keith had been grateful for that fact. It meant he could navigate their waking hours and plan his movements accordingly.

Slipping his boots off beside the front door, Keith climbed the stairs on his toes, barely a noise sounding with each step. He'd long ago learnt how to walk in silence, how to retract his foot at the slightest hint of a squeak. The Tulson's stairwell didn't have squeaks but he didn't walk any more carelessly for it.

Keith almost made it. He almost made it to the little room at the furthest end of the house. Barely a handful of steps away, however, he heard the scuffle of movement behind him and snapped his gaze over his shoulder. Every muscle within him tensed in readiness.

Through the darkness, Clyde's expression shouldn't have been visible, but it didn't need to be. Keith could feel it, could feel the heat from his unblinking gaze, saw the set of his arms as they crossed over his chest. Angry? Keith thought he was angry. He half curled his hands instinctively in response.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Clyde said lowly, in barely more than a whisper.

Keith blinked. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. I fucking don't. But Mom cares and she gets upset sometimes when you're not around in the afternoons. Which is, like, _always_."

Keith stared at him before replying slowly. "I was at work."

"What the fuck?" Clyde snorted. "Why do you have to work every fucking day? Why can't you at least be around on Thursdays when I'm out with the boys and Mom can see you to know you're actually alive?"

Keith didn't respond with the obvious. He didn't tell Clyde that just because _he_ was afforded sufficient allowance to expand his savings whenever he asked for it, Keith didn't have that luxury. He wouldn't take it even if Sara or Peter offered it to him.

"It's none of your business," he muttered instead, turning hesitantly to continue back to his room. "Just leave me alone, please."

It was obvious it was going to happen. Keith was almost surprised it had taken Clyde as long as it did to reach for him, was surprised that it wasn't a punch. Clyde grabbed forwards, reaching for Keith's shoulder, and he was fast but not fast enough.

Keith twisted. He spun on the balls of his feet, sidestepped, batted Clyde's arm aside with the blade of his forearm and ducked behind him to grab his wrist. Fingers of his batting hand twisting and curling, Keith clamped upon Clyde's tricep and, with a twist forwards, had Clyde bent double and choking out a gasp of surprise. A slight twist further and –

"Ow, fucking _ow_ ," Clyde hissed, not quite loud enough that it would wake anyone. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Don't touch me," Keith said quietly, twisting just a little more for emphasis. "Just leave me alone and I'll leave you alone." Then, with barely a pause longer, Keith released him and hastily skirted out of reach.

Clyde straightened slowly, almost tentatively, and as he squeezed at the back of his arm where Keith had grabbed he turned a murderous glance upon him. Keith didn't need to see his expression properly to read it. "Why the hell are you here? Why'd you have to come to my family? Fuck, no one even wants you around."

Keith could only shrugged. "I know," he said. Then, without another word, he turned and took himself back into the room that had been given to him. He didn't care if Clyde stared after him with a look that could kill.

Closing the door behind him, Keith immediately dragged the desk chair across the room to wedge beneath the doorknob. Then, without even pausing to shrug out of the familiar, comforting weight of his jacket, he took himself to the corner of the room, dropped to the floor and tucked his knees to his chest. He wasn't scared. He didn't need comforting. Keith was simply always more comfortable with two walls on either side of him and one at his back.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, the surprisingly decent phone he'd been given two foster homes ago, he clicked the screen open. And paused. Why? Why was he doing this? Keith didn't care for other people, found solace in privacy and isolation because it was easiest. Safest.

Why had he signed up to Voltron in the first place?

Keith didn't know. He didn't know and he didn't really care. In the aftermath of Clyde's words, it would be nice to escape to somewhere else for a while. The Princess's opening request had been to have someone who would simply listen.

Well. Keith could do that. Listening wasn't so hard.

* * *

_Red: I don't really want to talk._

_Red has left the chatroom._

_PrincessOfAltea: Wait._

_PrincessOfAltea: Red?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Red, don't leave._

_PrincessOfAltea: We won't ask questions if you don't want us to._

_PrincessOfAltea: Red?_

_BlackLion007: Princess, he won't be able to hear you when he's signed out._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh._

_PrincessOfAltea: I see._

_Sharpshooter18: What's his problem?_

_Butterfingers: :(_

_DiffWitch: Maybe Red just doesn't want to share?_

_DiffWitch: Is that wrong?_

_Sharpshooter18: He could have just told us._

_Butterfingers: He kind of did._

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, but he didn't have to leave after that._

_BlackLion007: I guess we'll know for next time. For when he comes back._

_Butterfingers: We're not going to point out the obvious here, are we?_

_Butterfingers: I mean, I know everyone else is thinking it._

_Butterfingers: Right?_

_PrincessOfAltea: He'll come back._

_PrincessOfAltea: He will._

_PrincessOfAltea: Hopefully._

_Butterfingers: Great, it wasn't just me thinking it._

_DiffWitch: You seem very confident of that, Princess._

_PrincessOfAltea: Well, always look on the bright side. Isn't that right, Butterfingers?_

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Butterfingers: You bet._

_Sharpshooter18: So…_

_Sharpshooter18: That's it?_

_Sharpshooter18: We just leave it like that and don't ask any questions?_

_Shaprshooter18: That doesn't feel right._

_DiffWitch: Watch out, Sharpshooter, we might start to think you care._

_Sharpshooter18: I care._

_Sharpshooter18: And I don't want Red to ruin something before it's even started._

_BlackLion007: He hasn't ruined anything. We'll see. Next time._

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes. Next time._


	3. Online Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so, so much to each and every one of my lovely readers and commenters from last chapter! I've received so much love already and it's really the most wonderful support and encouragement. Please forgive me if I don't leave a personalised message in these chapter notes to every person who's taken the time to speak to me or read as I'd like to. You're all so kind, though!  
> I hope you continue to like the rest of the story and the ensuing chapters :)

_16/09 – 08.00am_

_PrincessOfAltea: Good morning everyone!_

_PrincessOfAltea: A lovely day we're having, as always. Don't you just love it when it rains so fiercely like this? I can hear it on the windows even when I'm sitting inside. I love it!_

_PrincessOfAltea: What a glorious day._

As Shiro opened Voltron that morning, he shook his head, a smile settling on his lips.

Pidge distractedly clicked open the App on her phone and spared it a glance and a smirk.

Hunk blinked blurrily at his phone as he left the bakery for the morning. He couldn't help but smile fondly.

Lance rolled over in bed, squinted at his screen and snorted with an unrestrainable smile of his own before turning his face back into his pillow.

And Keith… he didn't reply, but he saw it nonetheless. He stared at the Princess's message for a long time after she'd left the chatroom.

* * *

The waiting room wasn't one of Shiro's favourite places in the world. In fact, if he had to list favourites, it probably wouldn't have even made it in the top hundred.

There was nothing expressly wrong with the room itself. Pale walls, chairs that were more couches than of the plastic variety usually found in hospitals, pot-plants dotting the corners of the room and a television murmuring overhead, one of the ones as large as a window and looked plastered to the wall. There was a calming aura that pervaded the air too, something that demanded respectful quietude.

Shiro had been forced to turn his phone's vibrations off long ago for the constant buzzing sounds it impressed into that relative quietude.

_Sharpshooter18: He's a try-hard and it's just embarrassing._

_Sharpshooter18: I feel sorry for him._

_Sharpshooter18: No, honestly, I do._

Shiro barely had time to read Sharpshooter's words before his phone was buzzing with a reply once more.

_DiffWitch: You don't have to try and convince any of us, you know. None of us even know him._

_Butterfingers: There's a**holes in every neighbourhood, Sharpshooter. I guess he's just yours?_

_Red: Do you really feel sorry for him? Because he's embarrassing himself?_

_DiffWitch: Unexpected._

Shiro had come to suspect some time ago that he was one of the oldest ones in his the Voltron chatroom. He and the Princess both was his suspicion, and though Shiro himself had barely reached his mid-twenties, he felt that sometimes he was a little out of his depth with them all. Not that he minded. They were nice kids. And chatty, at least the majority of them. More than that, they were always welcoming and receptive whenever Shiro had something to contribute.

Even if that something was suggesting that DiffWitch concentrate on her own schoolwork. He was sure she was definitely a school student, was the only one he was absolutely certain about despite Sharpshooter preaching of his tiresome 'classmates'. He could be in college, after all. Shiro sometimes felt a little responsible for engaging in conversation when DiffWitch should have her attention turned towards her teacher.

He did, but that didn't stop Shiro from talking to her. Or to any of the rest of them. When he was in the waiting room, it was a nice distraction.

_BlackLion007: What is it that he's done that's so bad?_

_Sharpshooter18: Urgh_

_DiffWitch: Don't ask._

_Sharpshooter18: Urgh!_

_Butterfingers: Did you miss the conversation yesterday, BlackLion?_

_Sharpshooter18: URGH!_

_Red: If you have something to say, just say it._

_Sharpshooter18: I will, thank you._

_Sharpshooter18: First off, he's a total wanker. Thinks he's all that. You know the type, speaks out in front of everyone to get attention, pulls the jokes, the teacher kind of thinks he's a d*ck but also funny at the same time._

_Sharpshooter18: He skips out on school a lot of the time but always manages to pull through with his grades – not the top of the class or anything but does well enough._

_Sharpshooter18: And despite skipping, he managed to make it onto the soccer team. Just like that!_

_Sharpshooter18: Urgh! I am so annoyed!_

_DiffWitch: Some could see it as annoyance. I rather perceive it as jealousy._

_Butterfingers: Which there is nothing wrong with!_

_Sharpshooter18: I'm not jealous! He's a d*ck! Why would I be jealous of him?_

Shiro suspected DiffWitch and Butterfingers perhaps had the right idea, though he didn't think he would have mentioned it himself. Over the past few days of talking near constantly, he'd come to learn a little about the rest of the members of the chat. He'd learned that Butterfingers was employed at a bakehouse as it worked well around the hours he most needed to be home – though the reasons for him needing such he hadn't disclosed, to the silent acceptance of the rest of them. He'd learned that DiffWitch had a brother that she apparently adored and that yes, though she may dispute assumptions of the nature at every opportunity, she was in fact a girl. He'd learned that Sharpshooter was not, in fact, a major league soccer player, though when he wasn't blowing hot air, his talk of his plays suggested he had at least some talent.

And that he was jealous. Jealous that, for reasons he hadn't disclosed, he wasn't able to do that. Shiro understood that. He understood the jealousy of watching others possess something he couldn't, and he always felt guilty for it. It didn't matter what the rehabilitation officers said or the encouragement that Shiro's captain and comrades had offered him on the scant few times they'd managed to visit. It didn't matter how the nurses encouraged him to think, how his doctors suggested that recovery and even re-enlistment might be on the horizon. Shiro felt… broken. He felt guilty for breaking in the first place.

There was really no getting around the kind of jealousy that spawned from that. Shiro had been committed long hours with only himself for company to come to the understanding that his brain wasn't exactly the nicest place to be at the moment.

_BlackLion007: Perhaps you're not jealous. But it's always frustrating to see someone else who seems like they deserve it less obtain something that could have been yours._

_BlackLion007: It sometimes seems a little unfair, doesn't it?_

_Butterfingers: :O_

_DiffWitch: Wow. Big guns is stepping in. You should feel honoured, Sharpshooter._

_Sharpshooter18: Thanks, Daddy-O!_

_Sharpshooter18: The support is appreciated!_

_Sharpshooter18: And look, I'm not exactly saying that it should have been mine – I'm not that much of a b*stard – but I just think maybe his whole character should be considered before he's signed up, you know?_

_Red: If anything, I think he kind of sounded a bit like you._

At the red-coloured words that sprung onto the screen, Shiro winced. Apparently he wasn't the only one to do so.

_Butterfingers: :O !_

_DiffWitch: Ouch, hit him when he's down._

_Sharpshooter18: DAMMIT, A**HOLE!_

_Sharpshooter18: I'M HURTING HERE AS IT IS. DID YOU HAVE TO?!_

_Red: No, I_

_Red: Didn't mean it like that._

_Red: I just figured_

_Red: You seem like the kind of person that would be pretty talkative, even in class._

_Red: And that would be a bit of the prankster that even the teachers couldn't quite be annoyed with._

_Red: And you said you were pretty good at soccer so_

_Red: …_

_Red: I didn't mean you were a d*ck._

Shiro blinked at his screen of his phone, finger hovering over the keypad. He found himself holding his breath in wait for the first person to speak. Red was an interesting person, and the one Shiro knew the least about. He was quiet, reserved, and incredibly reluctant to speak of himself. Still, Shiro was glad he'd come back after that first conversation where he'd signed himself out. It would have been a little sad if he'd disappeared their first day of meeting one another.

No one ever mentioned Red abruptly walking out of the conversation. No one ever mentioned that he never spoke of himself, either.

_DiffWitch: *cricket sounds*_

_DiffWitch: Seemed appropriate._

_Butterfingers: That was a compliment, wasn't it?_

_Butterfingers: I'm pretty sure there was a compliment in there._

_Red: What do you mean?_

_Red: I was just saying it how it is._

_BlackLion007: I think that was actually a kind thing to say, Red, though maybe not the correct turn-a-phrase?_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah…_

_Sharpshooter18: Hey Red. Are you a socially defective?_

_DiffWitch: Hey!_

_BlackLion007: Sharpshooter, that was uncalled for._

_Butterfingers: Ouch. Didn't we just decide he complimented you?_

_Red: Maybe?_

_Red: I don't know._

_Red: Define socially defective?_

_Red: Though I don't really like that word._

_DiffWitch: You're not supposed to just agree with him, you know, Red._

_Sharpshooter18: I think I rest my case._

_Butterfingers: I can imagine you have some pretty interesting friends, Red._

_Red: No._

_Red: I don't._

Before Shiro could think to pursue the conversation – whether deflecting further arguments as he'd come to realise was almost his primary role, encouraging DiffWitch not to antagonise Sharpshooter in such a passive manner as she was inclined to, or to ask Red what he meant by his bluntly simplistic words – he was interrupted.

"Shirogane Takashi?"

Glancing up from his phone, Shiro felt himself snap back to reality. He hadn't realised how detached he'd become, that he'd been quietly smiling at his friends' conversation, that he'd been _enjoying_ himself and _not thinking_ about everything. When he raised his gaze, however, like a rubber band pinging back into looseness, the stillness of the waiting room settled upon him once more.

Dr Everson was an older man, grey fletching his dark hair and thin lips. He didn't look any less kindly for the thin smile that always rested upon them, however. He had a nice face. Friendly. Unimposing.

Shiro sincerely disliked visiting Dr Everson.

"Right this way, Shiro," the doctor said, pausing in the entrance of the waiting room and gesturing back down the hallway from whence he'd come.

Obediently, with more than a touch of regret, Shiro slipped his phone into his pocket and rose to his feet. He was getting better at using his left hand now, even if it still felt unnerving at times when he attempted to reach with his right. Phantom fingers rarely succeeded in grasping what he attempted to hold.

Dr Everson's office was simplistic if cluttered. An L-shaped desk with several chairs dotted around it, computer propped at the centre amidst a printer, a phone, a mess of papers and pens. Shiro barely spared the walls and their tokenistic landscape pictures a glance before assuming a seat in one of the padded chairs.

The doctor sighed as he resumed his own seat, not so much wearied from the effort of seeing his patients but preparing himself to launch into discussion with his next. He propped his hands, clasped loosely together, atop his desk and leant towards Shiro. His thin smile stretched once more. "How are you feeling today, Shiro?"

Shiro bit back on his own sigh and, as he had several times over the past weeks already, he settled himself to answering the doctor's questions with as little pessimism as he could manage. Mental health was another concern of his doctors; apparently they were concerned he may show signs of suffering from post-traumatic stress and depression. Shiro didn't know. He wasn't sure he entirely cared.

How was he feeling today, was followed by a casual, was he feeling any exceptional pain?

There was no pain besides a dull ache in Shiro's shoulder and the yawning absence of his arm. Shiro told him that. He always said the same thing.

How did he feel about his circumstances? What are his thoughts on what happened had happened? Was there anything he'd like to ask? Anything he'd like to say?

How were the group sessions going in the Rehabilitation Ward? Did he find them useful? Was there any requests he wished to make?

And, perhaps most importantly: "Have you considered what we spoke of at your last visit?"

Had Shiro considered? Of course he had considered. He'd thought of little else after Everson had first mentioned that he may be psychologically and financially compensated by the US army to enable him to obtain a prosthetic arm. That there had been an uprising in trauma victims returning to active duty after their rehabilitation of late and at times growing for their experience.

Of course Shiro had thought of it. He'd thought long and hard, except that… he couldn't quite bring himself to consider it. He knew it was pessimistic of him – he suspected that Sharpshooter, Butterfingers and the Princess in particular would all have told him as much – but for the moment he simply wanted to wallow in misery.

He shouldn't. It wasn't like him. But Shiro couldn't help it.

Adopting a smile he didn't feel, Shiro nodded at Dr Everson. "I've thought about it, though I confess I'm still thinking, I'm afraid."

Everson nodded with real understanding. He'd probably seen countless people just like Shiro and just as bafflingly resistant. "Of course. Take your time. You have all the time and support in the world."

"Thank you."

"I have to wonder, though," Everson said slowly. He paused, expression contemplative. Raising a hand to his chin, he studied Shiro thoughtfully, almost detachedly. "Our rehabilitation program has achieved exceptional results. Progressing from limb stabilisation and medical discharge, the use of prosthetics has been nothing if not successful. I have to wonder – why?"

Shiro didn't need Everson to explain what he meant by his question. It was apparent to him and Everson clearly knew it for the quietly contemplative expression on his face that accompanied his expectant silence. Why didn't Shiro want to help himself? Why wasn't he jumping at the opportunity to replace what he'd lost?

If Shiro were being truthful, he'd admit to Everson that it didn't feel right. That there was something within him that denied the possibility of taking the chance, of jumping at the opportunity. It was an upwelling of some unreadable guilt, arisen from a point Shiro couldn't understand, and ceased any thoughts about even contemplating such a possibility.

Why? Why the guilt? Shiro recognised that was what it was, at least. He just couldn't understand _why_.

"I don't know," he said simply. He offered Everson a small smile. He wondered if the doctor knew he wore an expression that said he didn't believe him, but the Everson didn't question him further.

When he left the office, it was to Everson's askance of whether he needed someone to accompany him to his room. Shiro shook his head. He knew his way by now well enough. Striding through the white-walled halls and along carpeted floors that faded into vinyl then carpet once more, he nodded acknowledgement to the patients and nurses he passed. They were nice people. All of them, without exception. They were admittedly different kinds of nice, but Shiro had grown to understand that there was something about people that worked in care, something about doctors and nurses, that was innately Good.

A flicker of that guilt surfaced within him once more. Shiro didn't understand it but he couldn't thrust it aside.

It took deliberate thought to reach into his pocket with his left hand. Strange, that after weeks of relying upon his left, Shiro still instinctively made to use his right. Stepping into his room, the room of a simple bed, nightstand and television that he never really used, he slipped his phone into his hand and lowered himself onto the end of his bed.

Escape. He'd come to rely upon the kind of escape that talking to people who didn't know him, that didn't know his circumstances and didn't pity him, could provide. The silhouette of Voltron's lion sprung up in the middle of the screen with a tap of his finger.

The chatroom had fallen into stasis. Shiro was momentarily disheartened until he scrolled to where he'd abruptly left off and flicked through the conversation he'd missed. He found himself smiling, disregarding his despair of moments before.

There had been arguments. Arguments that were more playful banter than true anger. There had been Sharpshooter's complaints and then brief melancholy before he clambered past it. There had been DiffWitch's incessant sarcasm threading through the coloured text, Butterfinger's good-natured support and Red's strangely blunt and almost disjointed contributions. But what really made Shiro pause was their exchange towards the end of the discussion, when Sharpshooter had quipped idly and seemingly offhandedly about his apparent contester.

Shiro's smile widened further as he read.

_DiffWitch: You're right, though._

_DiffWitch: You should have been considered._

_Butterfingers: It's not really fair, is it?_

_DiffWitch: No it is not._

_Red: Life often isn't._

_Red: I think it's probably more impressive that you stick at it even though it isn't._

_Red: It takes a lot to keep trying again and again even when the results are biased._

_Sharpshooter18: Are you guys_

_Sharpshooter18: You're really_

_Sharpshooter18: …_

_Sharpshooter18: Thanks_

Shiro's smile was genuine and he felt warmth well in his chest. He didn't quite like where he was himself, physically and otherwise. He didn't like the Rehab Centre, didn't like the confinement of the sterile rooms that were only vaguely personalised with sparse creature comforts. He didn't like that he was under constant supervision until he was deemed suitably stable and able to proceed with his recovery himself with a modicum of independence. Which, if Dr Everson's words were any indication, wouldn't be for some time.

But when he spoke to the other so called 'paladins' of Voltron… when he talked to them, saw them together, read their interactions that, though often teasing and almost deteriorating into fighting, often resorted in support – it was something else. To Shiro, that was something else entirely.

Scrolling down to the bottom of the conversation, he watched as first DiffWitch then Butterfingers, Red then Sharpshooter each signed out. Sharpshooter remained for just a little longer then the rest, and the cause of his persisting presence was immediately apparent.

She'd just missed them.

_BlackLion007: Hello, Princess._

_BlackLion007: I believe we both missed the bulk of the conversation._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh!_

_PrincessOfAltea: Hello, BlackLion. Yes, it would appear so._

_PrincessOfAltea: I managed to talk to Sharpshooter briefly, but he had to leave._

_BlackLion007: He seemed very sad to have to do so._

_PrincessOfAltea: He did seem a little reluctant, didn't he?_

_PrincessOfAltea: He's really a sweetheart._

PM: BlackLion007 to PrincessOfAltea.

_BlackLion007: You know, he's going to want to talk to you about you calling him a sweetheart for at least the first five minutes of the next conversation you share with him._

_PrincessOfAltea: What?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, yes. Damn, I'm so forgetful sometimes! I forget to write in private messages when saying such things. He does seem a little bit inclined to jump on any opportunity, though, doesn't he?_

_BlackLion007: I think he's interested in you :) He has his mind on girls a little it would seem._

_PrincessOfAltea: I think he's more likely at the stage where anyone vaguely representative of someone he could be interested in holds his absolute attention. I don't think there's anything particularly interesting about me personally. Certainly not. And not specifically any girl, I don't think. He hasn't expressed any interest in DiffWitch._

_BlackLion007: I think DiffWitch would be more likely to chew him up and spit him out if he tried. She's something of a fierce personality._

_PrincessOfAltea: She is at that, isn't she? I do quite like her._

Shiro slumped back on the hospital bed as he typed. He and the Princess had somehow become close over the past week. Remarkably close, given that they'd known one another for such a short time and then only through Voltron. Shiro had never had much to do with chatrooms and forums so it was a new experience for him. He wondered if he was behaving correctly.

But then, it hardly mattered. The Princess alongside the rest of the members of the chatroom were some of the only people he really spoke to. Shiro hadn't contacted his parents yet. He hadn't spoken to any of his friends either, besides the brief awkward visits of his fellow soldiers. He found he couldn't, and though the reason why was somewhat hazy, Shiro could realise that. It was because of the strange guilt that welled within him each time he contemplated his arm and what had happened.

Shiro didn't know exactly why such guilt stuck with him so fiercely. All he knew was that as he was now – fractured, incomplete, disconsolate – was so vastly different to the person his friends and family knew and loved that he would feel ashamed to show himself. He couldn't do that. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

The Princess was one person he could entirely open up to. Or at least as much as he needed to, and he didn't feel the guilt or shame for being different to how he was. And besides that, besides all of that, they shared something. Something that, as far as Shiro knew, even the other members of the Voltron chatroom didn't.

_BlackLino007: I quite like them all, actually. They're good kids, although I have to wonder how much younger they really are than I am._

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, it does make one feel a little old, doesn't it? I've never personally considered myself so aged as to be out of my depth, but when speaking to them I'm forced to realise there is a whole age cohort beneath me I'm not familiar with._

_BlackLion007: Somehow, I don't believe you're as old as you seem to think._

_PrincessOfAltea: No, perhaps not. It does feel like it sometimes, though._

That there was what they shared. Not that they were both older than their fellow members. Not that they felt out of their depth. It was that weariness within them both, and the fact that, though they'd never openly admitted it to one another, they both knew one another's circumstances.

Shiro would never ask, but he often found himself wondering which hospital the Princess was at.

_BlackLion007: Are you alright?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm sorry?_

_BlackLion007: You seem a little tired. Upset?_

_BlackLion007: I missed having my usual morning chat with you. Were you waylaid?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh. Thank you, but there was no trouble. But yes, I missed sharing it with you too. Not to say that I dislike speaking to the rest of the paladins, but they converse at such a rapid rate I can't keep up at times._

_BlackLion007: I understand completely._

_PrincessOfAltea: But I'm alright. Really. I simply had a bad morning with one too many check ups for my liking. But what about you? You dropped rather suddenly out of the conversation before. Is something wrong?_

Shiro closed his eyes for a moment. It was nice to have someone he could speak to of this. Someone who didn't expect him to be as strong, as resilient, as good-humoured and persisting, as he'd always strove to be. That more than anything was what Shiro found Voltron most important for. For him, at least.

_BlackLion007: I'm fine. Just the usual. A check up, but nothing in particular._

_PrincessOfAltea: I see._

_PrincessOfAltea: Well, if you feel the need to discuss – or vent, I believe DiffWitch called it the other day – I am a listening ear._

_BlackLion007: Thank you. And the same to you._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you too._

That right there was perhaps the only thing that was keeping Shiro buoyant at that moment. The only thing that kept his head above water. Resting his phone against his chest, he drew his gaze up to the ceiling. Shiro didn't really like his room, didn't like the doctors and nurses' incessant presence regardless of how kind they were, but sometimes it wasn't so bad. It wasn't so bad because he had somewhere he could escape to.

* * *

_21/09 – 3.11am_

_DiffWitch: But that still doesn't really make sense, because then when reality is re-established it's like it never happened at all, isn't it?_

_Red: Not for the person it happened to._

_DiffWitch: But if it only affects them, then it might as well not have happened at all. What's the whole point?_

_Red: I suppose it matters to the protagonist._

_DiffWitch: And everyone else who isn't the protagonist?_

_Red: It doesn't matter._

_DiffWitch: That's harsh._

_Sharpshooter18: HELLO FELLOW PALADINS!_

_Sharpshooter18: How are we all this fine evening?_

_Sharpshooter18: I apologise for my lateness but I was attempting to sleep like the sane person I pretend to be._

_Sharpshooter18: As you can see, it didn't work._

_DiffWitch: Not only for you, apparently._

_Red: It's just the two of us._

_Red: Three now._

_DiffWitch: Sleep is for the weak._

_Red: And the sane, according to Sharpshooter._

_Sharpshooter18: Hey now, I'm not meaning to offend. I lump myself in with you lot, you know._

_DiffWitch: The fact that you even call us 'you lot' is a little demeaning._

_Red: Are we a lot now? I thought you'd taken to calling us paladins like the Princess?_

_Sharpshooter18: I have because that's our name. The Princess decides all. She is our queen._

_Red: Princess._

_Sharpshooter18: What?_

_DiffWitch: So you've progressed from wistful pining to actual respect now, have you?_

_Sharpshooter18: I'm feeling attacked. You two always come at me from both sides._

_Red: Unintentionally so._

_DiffWitch: For you maybe, Red. I'll admit that it's not unintentional on my side in the slightest._

_Red: Duly noted._

_DiffWitch: I'm going to check out, though. It's way later than I realised it was._

_DiffWitch: Bye._

_Red: Bye._

_Sharpshooter18: Did she leave because of me?_

_Red: What?_

_Red: No. Why would you think that?_

_Sharpshooter18: How could I not?_

_Sharpshooter18: She literally just left when I signed in._

_Red: No, she was going to leave before. That was the third time she'd said she was going. We just got distracted with a conversation._

_Sharpshooter18: About what?_

_Red: Time travel._

_Sharpshooter18: You two are kind of nerds, aren't you?_

_Red: Not really._

_Sharpshooter18: Let me guess, you don't really like school or study or, I don't know, time travel?_

_Red: No._

_Sharpshooter18: You're still at school, then?_

_Red: Yes._

_Sharpshooter18: But you are smart?_

_Red: Apparently._

_Sharpshooter18: How can you just say 'apparently'? Is it so hard to acknowledge if you're good at something?_

_Red: I don't know. Is it?_

_Sharpshooter18: Don't turn this back on me, now._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm just being nice. And I'm curious._

_Red: You're always curious._

PM from Sharpshooter18 to Red

_Sharpshooter18: I don't want to be a pushy a**hole, so just tell me if you don't want to talk. I'm honestly just curious, though. Can you blame me? We literally talk almost every morning at the a** crack of dawn and you somehow manage to say next to nothing about yourself._

_Sharpshooter18: I know you've got that thing where you don't want to say anything but I'm just asking. Out of curiosity, you know?_

_Sharpshooter18: Please don't sign out again._

_Red: I haven't done that for a while._

_Red: And it's immature of me, I'll admit. I won't do it again._

_Sharpshooter18: I didn't mean it was immature._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm just bored and want someone to talk to._

_Red: I feel very needed, then._

_Sharpshooter18: Sarcasm?_

_Red: Yes._

_Sharpshooter18: Good. I'm getting better at guessing._

_Sharpshooter18: Although wait._

_Sharpshooter18: I didn't mean I just wanted to talk to you so I could talk to someone. I didn't mean it like that. That makes me sound like a jerk._

_Red: It's okay. Isn't that what Voltorn's all about? Just having an ear to talk to?_

_Red: That's what the Princess said._

_Sharpshooter18: And yet you don't use it for that all that much. I'm not going to lie, sometimes I do just need to rant for a bit, but it shouldn't just be me doing the talking all the time._

_Red: I don't mind. I don't need to talk._

_Sharpshooter18: You don't value yourself much, do you?_

_Red: That's a stupid question._

* * *

It had probably been a bad idea to spend so long talking to Red that morning, but even yawning and half asleep as Lance was he didn't regret it. He didn't know what it was about Voltron, about the rest of the members and his desire to talk to them, but he couldn't help it. It was nice, speaking to people who were in such different situations to himself. Or at least he thought they were different. Speaking online was vague in that no one had to reveal more than they wanted to.

Voltron was a little different in that regard too, however. Lance wondered what it was about it and its six members in their particular chatroom that had everyone opening up just a little bit. Himself included.

_Sharpshooter18: I've got to get up. School._

_Red: I know. Me too._

_Sharpshooter18: We probably should have slept._

_Red: Yes._

_Red: I hope you have the back corner of seat of the classroom._

_Sharpshooter18: Aw, are you suggesting I get some sleep in class? You really do care about my wellbeing._

_Red: What?_

_Red: No, I simply meant it would be the furthest from the teacher and you might be able to escape their notice from questioning._

_Sharpshooter18: Don't try and deny it, you still care._

Hauling himself from bed, Lance all but rolled into a pair of jeans and a shirt that looked somewhat clean and staggered from his room that his sister had already abandoned. He should have slept. He knew he should have slept. Except that, when three o'clock in the morning ticked past and Lance still couldn't crawl his way into oblivion, he'd given up hope. Sometimes he was out like a light. But other times, when he didn't manage that, he would lie awake for hours simply thinking. On weekends it wasn't so bad because he could simply take the sleeping hours when he could, but weekdays were something else. A trial in themselves.

Lance didn't like overthinking. It was far easier to lose himself in conversation with someone, even if that someone was a faceless figure on the other side of New York City.

Even if that someone was Red.

Surprisingly, Red had become one of the people Lance spoke to the most on Voltron. Even more surprisingly, after Butterfingers he was probably the one Lance got along with the best, too. DiffWitch seemed to revel in taunting him at times, and though BlackLion was perhaps one of the nicest and most upstanding people Lance had ever happened across, in real life or online, he was a little distant. The Princess too was somewhat sporadic in her conversations, and though Lance spared her his whole attention whenever he was able, she was a little aloof at times too. Not coldly so, but almost as though she drifted throughout their chats at her own pace. Perhaps oblivious was a better word. Lance got the impression she'd never really been in a chatroom before. Not that Voltron was a very typical chatroom, he would admit.

With Red it was different. He never spoke much of himself – or at all, really – and yet Lance felt like he'd come to know him just a little bit. Red was blunt and to the point, didn't pretty his words or speak more than was necessary. He was nothing if not a little tactless, and Lance had to wonder at times whether he was being as such on purpose just to be a shit or if he honestly wasn't aware that what he said would be even vaguely offensive. From what Lance had seen, he could apparently assume both guises.

And yet in spite of that, Lance found he quite liked talking to Red. He was like a sounding board, and more often than not in the dark hours of the morning he would find himself simply talking and Red contributing with little inklings of observation or speculation that were more often than not actually helpful. Lance hadn't expected he would like Red, but he found those inklings to at times be the best part of his day.

It didn't make stumbling from bed at seven o'clock in the morning any easier, however.

Lance's mamá was already in the dining room with the twins and Harper by the time he stumbled into the room. It was a riot of noise, Ditz protesting whatever Dee Dee was whining about in his ridiculously high voice. It had clearly served to wake the rest of the house and drag them downstairs too, for Mika stood blearily before the fridge as though she didn't know what to do with it.

As Lance staggered towards the kitchen, he spared only a second to throw a couple of slices of toast into the toaster before he took himself to the twins' booster seats. He absently plucked a second spoon from the kitchen draw as he passed and stuck it into the bowl of cereal before Ditz in an attempt to distract him from that which Dee Dee held. It worked well enough as soon as Ditz got his hands on it. The noise calmed some at that.

Lance's mamá sighed in distracted relief as she bustled back from the kitchen counter herself and placed a plate of toast down before Harper. She spared Lance a glance. "Morning. You look tired. Did you not sleep well?"

Lance shrugged but didn't get the chance to reply before there was a scuffle behind him and the doorway into the dining room was flooded by figures. His papá poured into the room at almost a run, followed closely by Janey and Isabel, with Janey already bowed over the thin book her hand as though she'd simply woken up and rolled right onto the first page. She was an obsessive reader for barely eight years old.

"Good morning," Lance's papá said, pausing at his mamá's side to press a kiss on the side of her head. "I'm sorry, I'm running late."

"Don't worry," she replied. "You head off. We've got it covered here."

Lance's papá smiled gratefully but he didn't leave. He never would, for he'd always been that way. In a mad scramble, Lance found himself caught up in the usual throughs of chaos that involved getting breakfast, making school lunches, braiding the hair of his younger siblings – and Mika too, because she clearly hadn't inherited her papá's hair dressing skills – and struggling to shuck socks onto kicking feet. Before eight o'clock ticked by, Lance was almost happy to tumble from the front door with his older sisters in tow, a wave spared over his shoulder to his frazzled mamá.

"Lance, don't forget to ask Janey's teacher about that invoice," she called after them. "And please apologise. It was entirely our fault that we lost it."

"I will, Mamá," Lance called over his shoulder as though he hadn't been instructed as such countless times that morning already.

"Have a lovely day, everyone."

"Yes, Mamá," they chorused, before Lance, Isabel, Mika and Janey were all starting down the road at a quick step towards the bus stop.

The sidewalk was already thickly cluttered with pedestrians, but Lance wasn't particularly worried about losing his sisters. They were nothing if not competent, and all of them had been making that very trip for years with simply one another for company. Weaving through the crowd, Lance idly pulled his phone from his pocket. As had become habit of late, he clicked into Voltron.

_Sharpshooter18: And we have lift off. The day has begun!_

_Sharpshooter18: On minimal sleep and in the company of countless siblings, Sharpshooter makes a beeline for the bus shelter. I take it as a personal triumph that I'm even out of bed._

Unsurprisingly, because Lance had grown to almost predict the timing of the arrival and disappearance of those in the chatroom, he received a reply almost instantly.

_Red: It's easier if you never actually climb into bed._

_Sharpshooter18: Do you speak from experience?_

_Red: Yes._

_Sharpshooter18: Blunt as ever._

_Red: Why would I lie about that?_

_Sharpshooter18: Maybe to get in practice for when your parents question why your eyes are hanging out of your head?_

_Red: They don't care._

Lance almost paused in step at that. Red very rarely spoke about himself so he couldn't help but lock his attention onto any and every little thing that did arise. From those words… maybe Red didn't get along very well with his parents? Lance had already deduced that Butterfingers had an almost unhealthy adoration for his own mother that the Princess thought unerringly sweet, while DiffWitch seemed at odds with her own, but Red he'd heard nothing of.

He filed the information away but didn't comment on it. He suspected that Red hadn't even noticed he'd given away such a fact.

_DiffWitch has entered the chatroom._

_DiffWitch: Do you guys actually sleep?_

_DiffWitch: Ever?_

_Sharpshooter18: Define ever?_

_Red: Sometimes._

_Red: Usually at strange hours, though._

_BlackLion007 has entered the chatroom._

_BlackLion007: Good morning. How is everyone?_

_Sharpshooter18: Tired._

_Sharpshooter18: As always._

_DiffWitch: As far as I'm concerned, that's entirely your fault._

_Red: True._

_Red: You were the one who decided to stay up talking till all hours of the day._

_Sharpshooter18: !_

_Sharpshooter18: I was talking to you!_

_Sharpshooter18: Don't just pin the blame all on me!_

_Red: I didn't say I wasn't involved, just that you were the one that had to decide to stay up in the first place._

_Sharpshooter18: I feel deceived._

"What are you smiling about? Weren't you whinging about being tired just before?"

Glancing up from his phone, Lance turned to where Mika was practically skipping at his side. She peered curiously at the screen of his phone, squinting at the sun that scattered light with its reflection.

Lance hadn't even realised he'd been smiling. Wiping the expression from his face, he poked an elbow into his sister's shoulder. "I wasn't whinging."

"Yes you were. You blamed school for starting at 'such an ungodly hour'."

"I remember," Isabel said idly at his side. "I was there."

"Yes, I do remember you being in the kitchen this morning, thank you for your contribution," Lance said, sparing the sister at his other side a glance. Behind them, disappearing and periodically reappearing from between passing figures, janey didn't once glance up from her book. Lance kept half an eye on her nonetheless. "But that wasn't whinging. That was stating a fact."

"If you didn't sleep then that's your fault," Mika said, and her chiding was reminiscent of that Lance's mamá so rarely conducted herself.

"Yes, thank you for that," Lance sighed, but he couldn't help but let his smile widen. He might feign indignation, but it was almost funny how similar his sister's words were to Red's, too.

When they drew up at the bus stop alongside a handful of similarly bleary-eyed and reluctant students, Lance glanced down to his phone. He wasn't surprised to see that the conversation had ensued without him, nor to see the Princess appear as she so often did.

_PrincessOfAltea: Good morning everyone!_

_PrincessOfAltea: How are we all?_

_PrincessOfAltea: It's looking to shape up into a beautiful day again, and before anyone denies me, it's actually beautiful!_

_PrincessOfAltea: What could be lovelier than the sight of storm clouds rolling over the horizon that haven't yet broken in a shower? And it's not yet so cold as to necessitate a jacket, or so the weather forecast tells me._

_PrincessOfAltea: I hope all going outside have thought to bring an umbrella._

She was so incessantly bubbly it was infectious. Lance shook his head, not bothering to glance up even as the bus drew towards their shelter and he felt himself herded on board like one of many in a flock of sheep. The Princess was fun to tease for her obliviousness, and though Lance would likely continue to flirt with her at any opportunity that presented itself, he hardly put stock in his attempts. He didn't particularly favour the Princess over anyone else.

Lance had discovered that, in just a short time, he'd come to quite like each and every one of the Princess-named paladins of Voltron.


	4. In The Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First of all, I just wanted to say a massively big thank you to each and every one of the beautiful, wonderful people who have taken a chance and decided to read my story. An extra special thanks to those additionally wonderful lovelies who have commented! Thank you so, so much, everyone. It might not seem like all that much to some readers, but receiving comments... it can really make someone's day. You've definitely made mine numerous times :)
> 
> Secondly, this chapter deals with LGBTQ+ characters. I only say this because I am IN NO WAY a spokesperson for the larger LGBTQ+ community and this is entirely a subjective take on the situation. Please don't hate on me if you don't agree.
> 
> Thanks, and other than that - enjoy!

_23/09 – 00.28am_

_Sendak: This is stupid._

_Sendak: You clearly don't understand how a chatroom is supposed to work. You're all amateurs and it's just embarrassing._

_Sendak: The whole point of talking online is that you don't bring your real shit inside and smear it all over the walls. What the hell are you doing dragging all of this into it?_

_Sendak: You're destroying the sanctity of anonymity by putting all your cr*p onto this._

_Sendak: No wonder your chat's so small when hardly anyone wants to talk to you all._

_Sendak: Hello?_

_Sendak: Oh, really mature. You're all just going to ignore me?_

_Sendak: Whatever. You're all a bunch of weirdo's anyway._

_Sendak has left the chatroom._

_Butterfingers: Is he_

_Butterfingers: Actually gone?_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, I think he's gone._

_Sharpshooter18: What an a**hole. Who cares what we say and how we use the chatroom? It's not like it's mediated for anything like that, right? There's no rules about getting to deep or anything._

_Red: He doesn't have to be here._

_Sharpshooter18: Exactly, Red._

_Sharpshooter18: Did DiffWitch get scared off?_

_Red: I think so. I saw her sign out a little while ago._

_Sharpshooter18: She pretends to be such a harda** but she's actually a softee, isn't she?_

_Sharpshooter18: I feel bad now, though. We should have stood up to that guy._

_Butterfingers: That's the second time he's been around already. I wish he'd just leave us alone._

_Red: I kind of wish BlackLion was here for this._

_Butterfingers: What?_

_Butterfingers: Why?_

_Sharpshooter18: Oh yeah, absolutely. He'd have actually run rings around that guy in the nicest way possible._

_Sharpshooter18: Have you noticed he always makes you feel bad about saying anything even vaguely offensive and yet you can't hate him for it?_

_Sharpshooter18: It must be an innate gift he has._

_Butterfingers: Ah, yes. The gift of conveying disapproval._

_Sharpshooter18: You got it._

_Sharpshooter18: Although, I think the Princess could have taken this Sendak guy too. She'd blast any negativity away with her happy radiance._

_Red: Happy radiance?_

_Sharpshooter18: Exactly._

_Sharpshooter18: Have you noticed that they're both never really around late at night?_

_Red: Maybe they sleep like most sane people._

_Sharpshooter18: You're never going to stop bringing that 'sane' thing up, are you?_

_Red: I don't think so, no._

_Butterfingers: Some people just don't function on the same hours._

_Butterfingers: I mean, I'm working from two in the morning today, so that's why I'm up._

_Butterfingers: Why are you guys awake?_

_Red: Can't sleep._

_Sharpshooter18: Same._

_Sharpshooter18: This happens quite a lot, actually._

_Sharpshooter18: Red and I are kind of going steady with our night dates._

_Red: I'm confused._

_Red: Don't say things like that._

_Sharpshooter18: Aw, are you blushing?_

_Red: No._

_Red: Why would I be blushing?_

_Sharpshooter18: Sarcasm?_

_Red: No?_

_Sharpshooter18: Damn._

_Sharpshooter18: I really suck at telling with you._

_Sharpshooter18: But I'm getting distracted. What do you do, anyway, Butters? Where do you work that has you up at such an ungodly hour?_

_Butterfingers: I'm at a bakehouse._

_Sharpshooter18: Seriously?_

_Sharpshooter18: Like baking bread and stuff?_

_Butterfingers: Yeah. And making pastries and buns and pies :)_

_Sharpshooter18: Cool!_

_Sharpshooter18: Do you like it?_

_Sharpshooter18: I mean, what am I saying, I'm assuming you do after all of the baking you've done with your mom, yeah?_

_Butterfingers: I do._

_Butterfingers: And I love my work. Everyone I work with are the nicest people and they're very lenient with my hours if I need them to be._

_Butterfingers: And we have the best recipes in the entire city._

_Butterfingers: You haven't tasted apple pie until you've had it from my place. It's to die for._

_Sharpshooter18: Nah, man, gonna have to disagree with you there._

_Sharpshooter18: I've got this bakery that I go to_

_Sharpshooter18: Only sometimes cause it's nearly two hours away or something ridiculous._

_Sharpshooter18: But we had an excursion with school once and I stumbled across it. It definitely makes the best pies in the world. I'm pretty sure they could top yours._

_Sharpshooter18: No offence or anything, but I'd sell my soul for anything they churn out._

_Butterfingers: Well, you obviously haven't tried them from my bakehouse, because your soul would be mine, I'm afraid._

_Sharpshooter18: Nope, sorry. This place would have to be better._

_Butterfingers: I challenge that._

_Sharpshooter18: Challenge accepted. I think it's better._

_Butterfingers: It's not._

_Sharpshooter18: It is. I swear on my life._

_Red: What's it called?_

_Butterfingers: Balmera Bakehouse._

_Sharpshooter18: Balmera something-or-other._

_Sharpshooter18: Wait._

_Sharpshooter18: WAIT!_

_Sharpshooter18: SERIOUSLY?!_

_Butterfingers: You've been to my shop!_

_Sharpshooter18: No f*cking way, man! I've been to your shop!_

_Sharpshooter18: Sh*t, your pies ARE to die for!_

_Sharpshooter18: Do you make them?_

_Sharpshooter18: Oh, please tell me you do so I can say I know the guy who makes the best pies in the world._

_Butterfingers: I make them, yeah!_

_Butterfingers: Or some of them, at least. It's not my recipe, but I make them. Apple pies, right?_

_Sharpshooter18: Ah, I'm in love. Those are my favourite things in the world!_

_Butterfingers: Thanks :)_

_Red: Are they really that good?_

_Sharpshooter18: They really are._

_Sharpshooter18: Red, if you ever get a chance, you have to go._

_Red: I don't really like sweet things._

_Butterfingers: WHAT?!_

_Sharpshooter18: How could you?!_

_Sharpshooter18: Wait._

_Sharpshooter18: Of course you don't. You're too sour to like sweets._

_Sharpshooter18: I'll just add that to the list of things Red doesn't like._

_Red: You have a list?_

_Butterfingers: Of course he does._

_Sharpshooter18: Of course I do._

_Sharpshooter18: But you should go regardless. It's so worth it. Even someone with the smallest sweet tooth in the world would like Balmera's apple pies._

_Red: I doubt it._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm not liking this negativity._

_Red: Sorry._

_Sharpshooter18: Sarcasm?_

_Red: Yes._

_Sharpshooter18: Fine. Whatever._

_Sharpshooter18: Just know though, Butterfingers, that I go to that bakery every fortnight if I can so I'm keeping an eye out for you._

_Butterfingers: I would think that was creepy in any other situation from a stranger online._

_Butterfingers: But I'm okay with this. I guess I might see you, maybe?_

_Sharpshooter18: Yeah, here's to hoping._

_Sharpshooter18: Though wait, how would I recognise you._

_Red: DiffWitch would quote stranger danger, so_

_Red: Stranger danger._

_Sharpshooter18: Yes, hello DiffWitch-rep._

_Butterfingers: This might be stupid of me to say it but here_

_Butterfingers: I always wear my bandana for work. Keeps my hair back._

_Butterfingers: Please don't stalk me and kill me._

_Sharpshooter18: Well, I am the master of the blade, didn't I tell you?_

_Red: You're a barber._

_Sharpshooter18: Ouch. Kick a man while he's down why don't you?_

_Red: Were you down?_

_Sharpshooter18: Shut up, Red. You make me sound like an idiot._

_Sharpshooter18: Butters, it's a date._

_Butterfingers: :D_

_Butterfingers: Looking forward to it._

* * *

 

Dusting his hands of flour, Hunk wiped the back of his hand across his eyebrows and into his bandana. Sweat was a natural result of working alongside heavy ovens, even in the cooling autumnal weather. With a sigh, Hunk turned from the counter and made his wandering way to the very back of the bakehouse.

Over. His shift was over. A good thing too, because he was utterly knackered.

The shop itself was already bustling with activity, and not just from the string of bakers turning over their hours to those who would follow their shift. Hunk could hear the ring of voices beyond the front counter, the customers speaking loudly, jokingly, at times enthusiastically and their voices ringing with laughter as they partook of the morsels sold to them. It was one of Hunk's favourite things, passing through the shop at the end of his shift and seeing the customers clustered around the circular tables and sipping at coffee or chewing through the sweets that filled the air with their rich aroma. Even tired as he was at the end of his shift, Hunk could always appreciate that.

Hunk was slipping off his apron, pulling his cap from his head and readjusting his bandana. He was just about to grab his bag from the back lockers when he felt the presence of someone behind him. Turning, a smile drew itself across his face.

"Hi, Shay. You're just starting?"

At eighteen, Shay was a big girl, tall and broad and about as imposing as a giant teddy bear. She was also one of the shyest people Hunk had ever met, though with a heart of gold hidden beneath that managed to pervade that shyness nonetheless. Shay had taken a liking to Hunk for some reason ever since he'd started, and being the daughter of the owner found her spending her afternoons chewing through bagels and completing her school homework at one of the bakehouse tables more often than not. They'd frequently shared breakfast after he finished up his shift.

Shay wore her familiar shy smile that widened slightly at Hunk's words. She nodded. "Yes. Just for a five-hour shift, however. Rax says he will be taking over from me at three o'clock so I can spend the afternoon studying."

Hunk nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Rax was just as big, just as broad and just as harmlessly imposing as Shay was. He'd been standoffish at first, but Hunk had apparently grown on him after he'd decided he wasn't going to corrupt his little sister. "That's good," he said. "Last year of school, you must be pretty bogged down by homework, huh?"

"Unfortunately, I am," Shay said with a sigh, her usual strangely formal speech lilting her words in pleasing discordance. "I do not know why I thought continuing into my senior year would be a good idea."

"You're smart," Hunk said. "Definitely smarter than me. You'll do really well, I'm sure."

Shay flushed. "You're smart too," she mumbled.

Hunk beamed. It stung a little, because Hunk could never finish school, but he appreciated the compliment nonetheless. "Thanks," he said. Then, gesturing to the front of the shop, he took half a step back through the kitchen. "Sorry, Shay, but I'm probably going to leave now. I've got to pick up some stuff on the way home. Did you need me for anything?"

Shay shook her head immediately, cheeks darkening just slightly – she really was very cute in the full flush of her shyness – before pausing and pursing her lips. "Not me. But there is a person at the counter who has been asking for you."

Hunk blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Is it my gran?"

Shaking her head, her flush easing slightly, Shay frowned. "No, it is not. I do not recognise him."

"But he asked for me?"

"He asked for the baker who wears the bandana."

For a moment, Hunk drew a blank. Then memory dawned on him in a sudden rush. It had been nearly two weeks since Sharpshooter had mentioned he occasionally visited Balmera's Bakehouse and though he still referenced the Balmeran pies on occasion, Hunk had almost forgotten.

In an instant he was starting for the door, a spring in his step, and only paused when reality niggled at his just slightly. He glanced towards Shay, raising his voice over the noise of baking and clanking as she hastened after him. "Who is he, do you know? I mean, does he look sketchy?"

The speed with which Shay shook her head was reassuring. "No, he does not. He is perhaps the least sketchy person I have ever seen. I do not think I have heard a single person laugh so much in one conversation in my entire life."

Oddly enough, even though he hadn't met him, Hunk was reminded of Sharpshooter. As if on cue, a loud bellow of laughter rung from the front room. Hunk detachedly registered it as having sounded on several occasions that morning already. "So he's the one who's been making all that noise?"

Shay nodded. "He is trying very hard to get Michelle's number. I do not think he realises she is not interested."

Hunk laughed, delight welling within him once more. Shay was a good judge of character. He would put stock in her perceptiveness for just about anyone. Sparing a final, wide grin over his shoulder, Hunk started from the kitchen. "Thanks, Shay. I remember, I know him."

"Oh," Shay said, expression a little bemused, paused in step as she'd made to follow him. "That is good then. I will see you tomorrow, Hunk?"

"Yeah, see you," he called and started into the front room into the front of the shop.

It was hard to miss the young man at the counter. He was indeed grinning widely, in the midst of a guffaw of laughter, and leaning so far over the counter as he spoke to an exasperatedly amused Michelle that his feet were likely off the ground. Sparing a nod to his fellow bakers and waiters, sharing a glance with Carl at the coffee machine, Hunk settled his attention upon Sharpshooter curiously.

The young man was tall, bordering on lanky, and wore a wide grin that showed an admittedly infectious smile. His eyebrows danced as he spoke and even leaning upon the counter he somehow managed to talk as much with his entire body as his voice in his attempt to engage Michelle in conversation. At what looked to be roughly Hunk's age, it was apparent even from a glimpse that Sharpshooter was harmless. The radiating guilelessness, the sincerity rippling from him in all of his overt flirtatiousness, couldn't possibly have been feigned.

He looked… friendly.

Hunk didn't know what he'd expected. He'd never met anyone he'd to spoken online before. He didn't really frequent chatrooms at all for that matter, and it had been a spur of the moment decision to sign up to Voltron. Hunk wasn't altogether sure how it worked, though if the interloper Sendak's interruption had been any indication their chatroom was a little strange. Were they not supposed to talk to other people about their real-lives? Were they not supposed to meet in person? Hunk wasn't sure but he found he didn't much care either way.

Slipping quietly into the front room – and apparently avoiding Sharpshooter's notice – Hunk paused at one of the front cabinets and plucked a palm-sized apple pie from the shelf. He folded it into a paper bag and sidled past Carl around the counter, nodding his head at Carl's amused, sidelong smile as he too watched Sharpshooter.

"I'm not one to brag, really, but yeah, I'd say I'm pretty good," Sharpshooter was saying as Hunk stepped up behind him. Hunk felt himself smirk slightly as he noticed that, with a slight lean forwards, Sharpshooter was indeed rising onto his tiptoes. "I mean, guitar isn't really my greatest talent or anything, but I've been told I'm something of a natural."

Michelle was fighting her own smirk and met Hunk's eyes over Sharpshooter's shoulder as he spoke in interruption. "Really? I thought you said your little sister threatened to cut the strings of every school instrument if you kept recording yourself on your phone and showing her at the dinner table."

The effect was instantaneous. In a split second Sharpshooter was dropping from the counter and spinning towards him. There was a moment when surprise painted thickly across his face, a touch of indignation in the form of a frown rising for Hunk's words, then his eyes flickered up to Hunk's head. To his bandana?

Hunk didn't have a second to think more. He didn't even have a moment to brace himself before, with a sudden, beaming smile, Sharpshooter launched himself at him and almost bowled him over. For such a lanky guy, he had a lot of force behind him.

"Oh my fucking god, it's you!" Sharpshooter exclaimed, cackling almost maniacally in Hunk's ear as Hunk struggled to regain his footing. He found himself grinning back. This, this meeting, hadn't expected when he'd signed up to Voltron but he couldn't say it was a bad thing in the least. It might not be typical of how chatrooms and chatroom friendships were supposed to work, but Hunk didn't mind. He thought he might quite like it. There was something very different, something _more_ , about meeting a cyber friend in the flesh.

Sharpshooter drew away in a sudden jerk but didn't release his grasp on Hunk's shoulders. He was a tall guy, a tall as Hunk himself, and seemed to radiate energy as he grinned at him. Had Hunk not already been smiling he wouldn't have been able to refrain from doing so in return. He noticed detachedly that Michelle was watching them curiously, that Carl was sparing them glance after glance over his shoulder as he frothed milk, but he hardly gave them thought.

"I take it from that introduction you're Sharpshooter, then?" Hunk asked.

It sounded silly saying such a name aloud, but Sharpshooter didn't seem to mind. Impossibly, his grin stretched wider. His hand clapped on Hunk's shoulder in a firm pat. "You bet, Butters." He shook his head. "Damn, I can't believe this. I've never actually met someone I've only spoken to online before. This is awesome."

Hunk could only agree and nodded vigorously. "It's kind of surreal. Putting a face to the name and everything."

"I'll say."

"Speaking of. Name?"

Sharpshooter quirked an eyebrow. "Huh?" Then he blinked, smile flashing broadly once more as he took a step backwards and held out a hand. "Oh, right. I'm Lance."

Hunk grasped his hand – _Lance's_ hand – and pumped it enthusiastically. "Hunk."

"What?"

"I'm Hunk."

Lance blinked at him once more for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. It sounded somehow more genuine than that he'd voiced before when speaking to Michelle. In fact, Lance appeared to have forgotten about Michelle entirely. "I thought you were calling me a hunk!"

Hunk snorted, shaking his head, but he found himself laughing alongside him. "You know, I think I could have guessed who you were even if you hadn't introduced yourself."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should," Hunk agreed, clapping his own hand on Lance's shoulder. _Lance._ _Lance_ who was _Sharpshooter_. It was just so cool! "But here. For your appreciation."

Raising his other hand, Hunk held out the paper bag. Shay's dad wouldn't mind him taking it, and as a greeting gift it was kind of perfect.

Lance didn't even need to be told what it was. His eyes lit up impossibly further and he was almost bouncing on his feet as he accepted the pie with almost reverential hands. "This is -? Fuck, man, you are definitely my knew favourite person in the whole world." Peeking into the bag, Lance actually groaned in excitement. Hunk couldn't help but laugh once more. "Did you make this? This is awesome."

"Yeah, I was the one that made them this morning."

"So good," Lance hummed, holding the bag up to his nose and inhaling deeply. "My life will be complete if you can be my friend and simply provide me with a constant supply of baked goods."

"Is this how you see our friendship?" Hunk laughed.

"Definitely," Lance said with another bounce on his toes. Then, glancing up from the paper bag, he quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, are you up to anything at the moment? I don't have to go to work till this afternoon, so if you're free…?"

At his words, Hunk glanced over his shoulder to the old clock hanging centrally on the wall above the door. His good humour deflated some as he saw the second hand tick past ten o'clock. It wasn't that he didn't want to go home to his mom but… it would have been nice to actually get to know his friend a little bit first hand. To actually spend some time with him.

Turning back to Lance, Hunk scrunched his nose. _The first time I've been able to actually catch up with a friend in ages,_ he thought "I'm really sorry. I've actually got to head home to, um… yeah, just with my mom." He was abruptly unsure if he wanted to drag the mood down with the reality of his home life.

Lance's expression dimmed slightly but only for a second. "Oh. That's okay, then. I mean, I could walk home with you a little ways if you'd like? No stalking insinuated, you understand."

"Yes, DiffWitch," Hunk said, and he couldn't help but grin at the thought. He gestured towards the door as he did, though, waving to Michelle and Carl behind him as he led the way from the shop and onto the crowded sidewalk.

Lance returned his smile in an instant, eyes crinkling slightly as he followed Hun's departure. "She would say that."

"Or Red. He seems to be of the same mind."

"Nah, Red's just running his mouth," Lance said, flapping his hand in disregard. Or at least one of his hands; the other was still occupied with holding the bag of his apple pie reverentially. "He's actually a bit of a sarcastic little shit I've come to realise."

"You know him pretty well, don't you?"

Lance shrugged, sidestepping a group of younger teenagers as they gaggled past. The weekend pedestrians were apparently out in full force, replacing the moderate noise of the bakehouse with the blare of traffic and cries of the passers-by. "We just talk quite a bit. He's actually a decent guy, I think, even if he's a little bit weird."

"Aren't we all a little bit weird?" Hunk said. "I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

"You sound like BlackLion when you say things like that." Lance grinned.

Hunk laughed. His good-humour was rapidly returning, despite the fact that he wouldn't be able to spend all that much time with Lance. He regretted that, and for more than that he wanted to get to know Lance better as a person rather than a line of blue-coloured text in an online chatroom. His unconventional work hours had Hunk often missing parties and get-togethers with his old friends. He hadn't seen many of them in a long time, not since he dropped out of school, and talking to Lance was the closest thing he'd had to 'catching up'.

Hunk liked that. He wanted to spend time with his new friend. For that matter, Hunk would quite like to meet all of the members of the Voltron chatroom if he could. That would be incredible. He wondered if it would ever be possible to meet them too?

"I have to swing past the grocery store," Hunk said, gesturing vaguely down the flooded sidewalk and over the heads of those before him. "Sorry about this, but did you maybe want to just tag along? I mean, you don't have to, but –"

Lance interrupted him with immediate agreement. "What? Oh, hell yeah, man. For sure." He spoke through crumbs, already picking at the apple pie in his hand. It was actually nice to see for someone like Hunk; he loved to see others enjoying the creations he made.

Hunk smiled. "Thanks. It's a shame that we don't have more time to talk. I'd really like to. I mean, what are the odds that we'd actually almost know each other?"

"I know, right?" Lance agreed, voice rising over the blare of a passing bus. "What if we've actually walked past Red, or DiffWitch, or BlackLion or the Princess and haven't even realised it? Wouldn't that be weird?"

"New York's a big city," Hunk reasoned.

"Except that we knew each other," Lance replied, apparently overlooking that, really, they hadn't. Not in person anyway. "I mean, what if Red's that weird kid in the year below me that no one's heard say a word since he started high school? Or the Princess could be that supermodel girl – I swear, she has to be a supermodel – that always comes with her papá to my papá's barbershop? Or what if…"

Hunk listened as Lance rattled on. It was strange – strangely satisfying – to listen to him speak rather than to read his words. Funny too, for he sounded so similar to how Hunk read his words online.

It might have been only for a short time, unexpected and unplanned, but Hunk was glad he'd met Lance that day. Lance had been the one to initiate it, and he was glad for that too. There was something so right about meeting someone he'd already spent hours speaking to.

Hunk really, really wished he could meet the rest of Voltron's paladins.

* * *

 

_PrincessOfAltea: I only wished to offer, but if you don't want to then that's entirely fine._

_PrincessOfAltea: I wouldn't want to push you into speaking if you weren't comfortable with doing so. I just wanted you to know that I'm more than eager to listen if you have anything you want to say._

_BlackLion007: We all are. You've done more than your fair share of listening. Everyone has, but we've all had our chance to speak too._

_BlackLion007: You don't have to keep silent if you're embarrassed for anything, or you think we won't want to listen. I'm sure you've come to realise that embarrassment isn't really what Voltron is all about._

_PrincessOfAltea: It really isn't._

_PrincessOfAltea: Red?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Please feel free. We just want to help with anything if we can._

_BlackLion007: I'm sure you've figured out just like the rest of us who the kind of people on Voltron are._

_BlackLion007: Red?_

_Red: I_

_Red: Thanks_

_Red: I guess._

_Red: I just don't really_

_Red: I'm not used to that sort of thing. I don't like talking to anyone about anything._

_Red: But I don't think I have anything embarrassing to say. There's nothing interesting enough about me to be embarrassed for._

_PrincessOfAltea: I don't believe that. And I stand by what you said in our first conversation. Maybe you just don't realise you're interesting._

_Red: I'm starting to regret saying that._

_BlackLion007: Please don't._

_BlackLion007: Judgement free zone, remember?_

_BlackLion007: We'll accept anything and everything you choose to share._

_DiffWizard: Will you really?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, hello, DiffWitch! I thought it was just myself, Red and BlackLion007. I saw you sign in earlier but thought perhaps you weren't free to talk._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh no, wait. I'm sorry, I misread you name._

_PrincessOfAltea: You are new?_

_PrincessOfAltea: You just have a very similar name._

_DiffWizard: No._

_DiffWizard: I'm not new._

_DiffWizard: I've been around for a while._

_PrincessOfAltea: I see. Are you perhaps a friend of DiffWitch, then? I would think you would have known her to share her name._

_DiffWizard: We're not really friends I wouldn't say._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh._

_PrincessOfAltea: But you use a similar name?_

_BlackLion007: Please pardon any crudeness, DiffWizard – and if you are indeed speaking for the first time then welcome – but I can't help but wonder._

_BlackLion007: And once again, forgive any crudeness that may be perceived for my words. But do you mind if I ask a question?_

_Red: Are you DiffWitch?_

_PrincessOfAltea: What?_

_Red: You are, aren't you?_

_Red: Just out of curiosity, is it constant or do you simply prefer varying your genders in your online pseudonym?_

_Red: I knew someone who used to do that and didn't really understand what I meant when I asked him if it was fluid or not._

_Red: But are you?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm a little confused. Is something wrong? Am I perhaps missing something?_

_BlackLion007: Not to worry, Princess. Nothing is wrong at all, I can assure you._

_Red: DiffWizard? I'm pretty sure you've already read it but, like BlackLion said, judgement free zone._

_DiffWizard: Do you really mean that?_

_BlackLion007: Of course._

_DiffWizard: And you wouldn't think I'm strange?_

_Red: Why would we think you're strange?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm still a little confused, I think. Are you perhaps genderfluid?_

_BlackLion007: Not so confused, apparently._

_BlackLion007: No crudeness intended for the question, DiffWizard._

_PrincessOfAltea: Why is that crude? Is it wrong of me to ask?_

_BlackLion007: I don't think so, but then it's not me who's being asked. I just wonder if perhaps DiffWizard is reluctant to share his experience._

_DiffWizard: It's not_

_DiffWizard: I'm not reluctant exactly. I'm just worried that_

_DiffWizard: I didn't know how to go about it so_

_DiffWizard: Yes._

_DiffWizard: I mean no, it's not just a pseudonym thing._

_DiffWizard: I really am._

_DiffWizard: I mean, I am. What you said, Princess._

_PrincessOfAltea: Genderfluid?_

_DiffWizard: Yes. That._

_Red: Cool. There was a kid I used to know from where I used to live who was trans. It's different, I know, but I think a little bit the same too._

_Red: Do you need help?_

_DiffWizard: Help?_

_DiffWizard: Like how?_

_Red: I was only wondering. Another girl I knew had a lot of trouble coming to terms with herself. She was bullied a little bit from what I could see. I just thought maybe you'd like someone to talk to about it. I never really talked to her but I guess I saw what she went through._

_PrincessOfAltea: You really are very good at this sort of thing, Red._

_Red: What?_

_Red: Good at what?_

_BlackLion007: Listening. Offering. Thank you, Red._

_Red: I don't really understand, but okay?_

_Red: DiffWizard?_

_DiffWizard: Is that really okay?_

_DiffWizard: If I can be either? With Voltron?_

_DiffWizard: I was worried everyone would think I was strange._

_Red: No._

_BlackLion007: We don't think you're strange._

_PrincessOfAltea: Of course we wouldn't. In fact, would it bother you if I asked you a question or two? I am curious, I must admit._

_BlackLion007: Is this the researcher in you coming out in you, Princess?_

_PrincessOfAltea: It would seem so, yes. I understand so little that I would rather ask and understand than remain ignorant. Would you mind, DiffWizard? You can tell me no if you're not comfortable with it._

_DiffWizard: I_

_DiffWizard: don't mind._

_DiffWizard: You guys really wouldn't care?_

_DiffWizard: You wouldn't care either way who I am?_

_Red: You already asked that. And no._

_BlackLion007: Not for a second. You're still you. Would you expect us to think otherwise?_

_DiffWizard: Maybe._

_DiffWizard: I think some people might._

_Red: Not me, at least._

_Red: I've never understood that. Why would people mind? It's not any of their business and it's not like it affects them._

_Red: If you'd like, you can just let us know the pronouns you want to use so we don't make a mistake._

_Red: Unless you want to just switch between online accounts for whatever gender you feel you most align with?_

_DiffWizard: Yes, I think I might just do that._

_DiffWizard: I feel sort of different as a boy to when I'm a girl so I'd like to use a different name._

_DiffWizard: I mean_

_DiffWizard: Is that really okay, though?_

_DiffWizard: Really?_

_Red: Third time. Yes._

_BlackLion007: It is._

_PrincessOfAltea: Of course._

_DiffWizard: …_

_DiffWizard: Thank you._

* * *

 

Pidge had been attending the East Side Youth Centre for nearly a whole year. It had helped when Matt had joined the army, leaving first for his training and then on deployment. Pidge had been left alone for several years and it had been just too hard to have no one else to go to. Pidge didn't have friends, not at school and not at home. The urge for attendance was driven loneliness, perhaps, though Pidge had never considered loneliness to be a relatable attribute. A youth centre, a place where other kids Pidge's age sought solace from a world that didn't quite accept them, was a sanctuary of sorts.

That day was the first time Pidge was attending as a boy, however.

It was scary. He hadn't been able to challenge himself with that step yet and hadn't even felt inclined to. Except that now was different. After talking to his friends on Voltron, he felt something approaching confidence well within him. Pidge had never told anyone before, not even Matt because Matt had guessed. Having the rest of Voltron's paladins know…

It wasn't as bad as Pidge had thought it would be. Not as bad as he anticipated it would be with his mom, because his mom was a somewhat tunnel-visioned person at the best of times. But no one on Voltron had cared. Or more, they'd cared because it was important to Pidge, but it apparently hadn't changed their opinions of him. It hadn't changed how they'd spoken to him, how they'd reacted. Not even Sharpshooter, who Pidge had something of a sarcastically provocative relationship with, had batted an eyelid.

Not for the first time Pidge wished he had them as friends in real life. He really didn't have friends and friends at all, and certainly none like them. None of the three-dimensional and human variety.

The youth centre itself wasn't a scary place, but upon Pidge's first visit it had been a little intimidating. He'd attended when he was fourteen and one of the biggest rules of the centre itself was that everyone spoke honestly if they spoke at all and that they tried. That they tried to try. A volunteer-run organisation, it struggled to help those that wanted to be helped. Many centres Pidge had looked into didn't target people who specifically needed help, were simply a site for activities and leisure. But he liked this one. He liked it a lot when he could come at all.

Pidge wasn't sure if he needed to be helped by anyone, though. He just wanted to be comfortable with who he was. If he could just have that…

The centre was nearly an hour and a half away from where Pidge lived. It was quite a trip, especially given that he had to make his own way, but it was worth it. It was the only time Pidge felt he could release his iron-fisted grip on himself for even a moment. Even just slightly. Besides, if it was so far away then Pidge didn't have to worry so much about meeting anyone from school. He sincerely hoped that wouldn't happen. Being comfortable with himself was one thing but having others know the truth about him? In real life? He wasn't sure if he could handle that.

His sole regret was that he could only attend the centre on Wednesdays. Wednesday was the one day that Pidge's mom worked till late so it was the only time he could escape halfway across the city without her notice.

Stepping through the doors of the community hall, Pidge found it already dotted with people, some chatting, some simply idling by themselves and waiting. It was nearing six o'clock so such was to be expected; group only began at six, with the afternoons consumed by sports and activities that Pidge struggled to avoid like the plague. He liked the volunteers that ran the centre and he liked the atmosphere of acceptance he could find there, but physical activities? Pidge wasn't inclined towards that. Not at all.

The hall was almost the size of the assembly hall at Pidge's school, which was saying something. At the far end stood a raised platform that wasn't quite a stage, and the customary two-score of seats were spaced in a ring before it. A 'circle of trust' one of Pidge's fellow attendants had jokingly called it. It was almost heartening that no one denied that fact.

"Hi, Pidge!"

At the sound of his name, Pidge turned. Libby, perhaps Pidge's favourite volunteer, approached him at a jog with a wave. Libby was nearly ten years older than Pidge, had a bit of a gap-toothed smile and was partially blind in one eye, and she was perhaps the nicest person Pidge had ever encountered in the flesh.

Pidge smiled nervously at one of the few people in the world he _hoped_ was his friend. He waved back. "Hi, Libby. How are you?"

"I'm good!" Libby replied with her usual enthusiasm. Strange, that Pidge would find someone so incessantly energetic and bubbly to be one of her favourite people. "It's so good to see you, though. I was worried when you didn't come last week. You alright?"

Last week. Pidge shifted awkwardly. Last week had been one of several times Pidge hadn't wanted to come because he didn't want to admit that he was a boy. He didn't know how everyone else would respond, was terrified even contemplating telling anyone and yet couldn't bring himself to pretend he was a girl when he _wasn't_. Every other time he'd been a boy on a Wednesday he'd simply skipped the centre meetings.

Last week had also been when he'd told the members of Voltron that sometimes, inexplicably to him for he still couldn't quite understand why he _felt_ like that, he was a boy. Everything had changed after that. It had changed because none of them had hated him for it.

Smiling a little shyly, Pidge shook his head. "No, nothing's wrong. I'm sorry I didn't come. Or tell you. Or, I mean –"

"No need to apologise," Libby said, flashing her crooked grin. "You don't need to apologise at all. I only wondered. Would you like to head over to the chairs? We'll be starting in a minute. If you wanted to talk to anyone…?"

Pidge nodded and, following Libby's direction, started towards the ring of chairs. He didn't really talk to anyone other than the volunteers. Not directly, anyway. Pidge had never been much of a people person.

There weren't that many people that night, as was apparent from the gradual movement of those towards the chairs. The conversation muffled into quietness as everyone seated themselves and by six o'clock, alongside four volunteers, half a dozen other 'youths' were arranged in the ring.

Pidge recognised some of them; some days he knew everyone at least by face and it was one of those days. Others, he barely recognised anyone. Those days were often when there were a multitude more people, sometimes even managed to fill all of the chairs.

Not that day, however, and Pidge found he liked it better as it was. At the beginning of every meeting they would discuss how their week – or days – had been since their last visit. Problems would be aired but just as often positivity was shared. The volunteers were very encouraging in urging the good as well as the bad to be voiced.

Pidge had decided. That day he would speak, would really speak, for the first time. He would admit that which had been sitting silently within him for so long. Pidge knew self-acceptance would be the key to progressing towards acceptance by others, but he simply acknowledged that he wouldn't be able to reach self-actualisation without being able to reveal the truth about himself.

In general, Pidge didn't care what others thought of him. Except his mom. And his brother. And… well, maybe he did care just a little bit.

All of the volunteers were familiar and alongside Libby Pidge knew them all by name. The names of the other kids, none likely older than eighteen or nineteen and some much yonger, were less definite, but Pidge recognised them too. There was a girl with glasses who was usually one of the most collected of their meetings, and one of the most vocal. Pidge was fairly sure her name was Winona.

Another boy with a seat between himself and Winona was familiar too, though Pidge couldn't recall his name. He was achingly thin and his cheeks were hollow. He had a fetish for fiddling with his lighter that the centre volunteers had requested he leave unlit for the duration of the meetings. It was a testament to how much he wanted to be there that he obliged, though Pidge had caught him juggling it on occasion.

There was the blonde girl that twitched in glances over her shoulder as though checking for exits, the sharp-chinned girl beside her who always spoke to the holey knees of her tights, the dark-haired boy in the red jacket who always kept to himself and so rarely spoke that Pidge had wondered at first if he was mute. There were others, too, and all but one he was certain he'd seen before. Pidge knew them, each of them, and in some ways that made the approaching night and what he intended to say easier.

In others, it made it much, much harder.

 _They know me,_ Pidge thought to himself as he attempted to ease into the uncomfortable, plastic chairs. _What if they're weirded out? What if they're disgusted? I can't expect everyone to be as welcoming as my friends from Voltron are._

It was scary. It was very scary indeed.

"Well," Taylor the head volunteer began with an expansive exhalation. "How are we all this fine evening?"

There were murmurs from everyone, Pidge included, except the quiet boy who simply glanced sparingly in Taylor's direction. The replies were barely intelligible but Taylor never seemed to mind. He was the ultimate optimist. All of the volunteers were optimists for that matter. "Shall we just jump into it, then? If no one has any complaints…?"

Heads shook and Pidge settled his attention expectantly upon Winona. Predictably, when Taylor asked if anyone would like to begin and tell them how they were feeling that day, she raised her hand. "I'll start, Taylor," she said, not quite pompously but with the confidence of knowing it was going to happen.

Taylor, just as predictably, nodded. No one begrudged Winona her opening lines. She effectively broke the ice every time she attended the groups. Settling himself back into his seat, Pidge readied to listen to her usual spiel. Although, spiel though he might consider it, Winona wasn't one to rant, nor to speak excessively.

Breaking the ice. That was simply what Winona did.

Winona was happy that day. That much was apparent from her words. The next boy, a kid Taylor called Noah who looked younger than Pidge himself and wore a deep furrow on his brow, wasn't. He very sombrely relayed how he 'wasn't feeling it today and didn't know why he'd felt like he needed to come'. The twitchy girl wasn't either, but the girl who stared and her knees claimed she was actually feeling alright because her dad had come to visit and she hadn't seen him in months. Pidge knew what that felt like.

Pidge and the quiet boy were the only ones who hadn't spoken when Taylor paused for an expectant moment. He glanced around the room as though waiting for anyone who might wish to speak further. Then, apparently seeing none forthcoming, he clapped his hands with a smile. "Alright. I was thinking if maybe we might head outside today? Winter's probably going to keep us indoors for a while so I thought that –"

"Hold on, Taylor, what about Pidge?" Libby interrupted not quite chidingly. She gestured in Pidge's direction. "She hasn't had a turn to speak yet. Pidge?"

Libby turned to Pidge expectantly and Pidge knew why she'd asked. Libby was the only person that Pidge had told that he struggled with speaking out in front of others sometimes. It was different speaking online because _he_ was different, could pretend for a moment that he wasn't as disastrous a daughter as his mom would surely think him, but this… this was a challenge. And that challenge was one that Libby recurringly posed to him each time he came to the youth groups.

Swallowing, Pidge glanced towards Taylor, towards Libby, darting his gaze briefly around the rest of the room. The rest of the kids were turned towards him expectantly, even the girl who looked at her knees glancing briefly upwards. This was it. This was the chance that Pidge knew he had to take. He felt his gut tighten, the slight tremble of his hands that he'd been denying begin in earnest now. A pause to catch his breath, to meet Libby's gaze once more, and he nodded. "Yeah, but um… He."

Libby blinked at him, confused, and Pidge couldn't bring himself to look anywhere else. Then, with more speed than Pidge had thought possible, she assumed her usual smile, entirely unfeigned, and nodded. "Right. Sorry. He. How has your week been, Pidge? Or the past two weeks for that matter, seeing as you haven't been here for a while."

Pidge could only stare at Libby for a long moment. The trembling in his hands didn't abate, the tightness in his gut lessened none, but where there had been terror but moments before something else rose to take its place. Pidge was torn between the urge to burst into tears, bury himself in his hands in embarrassment for his confusion and throwing himself at Libby for a hug.

He did none of that. With another painful swallow, he attempted a wavering smile and nodded. "Yeah," he said, finally managing to drag his gaze away from Libby's encouraging openness. "Yeah, two weeks. It's actually been… yeah, it's been good."

As Pidge spoke, as he relayed his brother coming back into town – he'd visited for most of the past week but had to leave back for base two days before – and his otherwise normal home life, he drew his gaze with as much foreboding expectation as nervous anticipation around the room. Towards the rest of the volunteers and the fellow attendees alike. The volunteers… Pidge could hardly believe how entirely devoid of accusation they all were. It was shocking. For the rest of the kids, there was a mixture of surprise, curiosity, acceptance and something akin to a frown of confusion wrought across their faces. None scowled, however. None appeared on the verge of spitting in disgust or rising to their feet and threatening to leave.

Self-acceptance. That was what Pidge sought. It was what he knew he should be seeking to achieve above all else. And yet seeing the absence of hatred from those around him, he knew that the communal lack of that hatred… that meant something. It meant something deeply.

Why were they like that? How couldn't they be horrified? Pidge didn't know, but he almost sobbed in relief for that simple fact.

Trailing to the end of his short explanation, Pidge paused. He pressed his lips together for a moment and swallowed tightly once more before continuing. It was less of a struggle than it had been. "Wednesday last week was the first time I've ever told anyone directly that I feel… that sometimes I'm a boy." He had to pause to rid the dryness from his mouth. _You've already told them,_ he coached himself. _They already know._ "I've been looking through a lot of forums, asking questions online and things, but this place – the people that I'm talking to – for some reason they feel different. I haven't known them for very long but I felt like I could tell them."

Pidge glanced towards Libby, taking strength from the constant and unshakeably encouraging smile she wore. Pidge didn't like condescension but from Libby it didn't feel quite like that. It was different. "They were great. I… it might have been a bit silly how I did it, but I ended up using a variation of my original name for when I logged on for the first time as a boy. And they accepted it. Just like that. It was the best thing in the world." Shaking his head, Pidge felt the beginnings of a wavering smile settle on his lips. "I couldn't have done it, come here tonight as I am, if I hadn't told them first. But this place, where these people meet, they're – I don't know it feels like… it's sort of like –"

"A judgement free zone."

Pidge drew his gaze across the ring of seats towards the quiet boy, the one that, even after hearing him speak, Pidge was still half convinced was actually mute. Except that he was speaking once more a moment later, his voice low, gaze vaguely curious through his overlong bangs. "It helps when you have people you feel comfortable with, I guess. You should ask them for help if you need it."

Pidge wasn't the only one staring at the quiet boy. It was almost as though they'd seen a ghost. Even the volunteers glanced his way, as though they too were surprised at his abrupt vocality. Only for a moment, however, before a number of them instead seemed to be struggling with withholding delighted smiles.

For himself, Pidge could only stare. The words resounded with those that had been offered to him barely a week before by his Voltron friends. It stuck a different kind of weight in his throat and he could only nod and choke out a muffled, "Yeah. Yeah, I… Thanks."

Afterwards, Libby gave him a hug. It was the first time she'd ever done that and once more Pidge might have thought himself reluctant to receive what could have been construed as condescension. But he didn't and it wasn't. Libby was a big woman and the warmth of her embrace felt like he was being wrapped in a blanket.

"That was really brave of you to tell us, Pidge," she murmured into his ear before finally releasing him. Pidge could feel his cheeks warm in embarrassment and more than a little relief – because no one hated him; they _didn't_ _hate him_ – but he didn't care. He didn't care that he probably looked like an idiot and Libby didn't comment on it either. "I'm really glad you let us know. If you have any trouble with anyone, at school or at home, you make sure you let us know, okay?"

"Okay," Pidge said with a nod. "Thanks, Libby."

"Let's head outside, then," Libby said, turning them both and, keeping an arm slung over Pidge's shoulders, directed them towards the doors. "Taylor's got a bit of a treat for us. You should have seen him setting up the field outside for the obstacle course. It's a work of art."

Pidge groaned, immediately slowing his step. "I don't do sport, Libby. You know that."

Libby laughed. "Yes, but this is _team_ sport. That makes it different." At Pidge's renewed groan and muttered plea she jostled his shoulders. "No, no, you don't get off that easily. Just because you take one step forwards doesn't mean you can take another one backwards."

Sighing, Pidge resigned himself to his fate and allowed Libby to drag him from the hall and down the slight decline to what truly did look like a work of art. A horrifying, exhausting work of art. As they walked, he drew his gaze towards the line of similar attendees following in Taylor's bounding wake. His attention locked on the back of the quiet boy's red jacket.

He'd never paid all that much attention to the boy before and didn't know why he was particularly interested now, except for the fact that his words had sounded so similar to those Pidge had read on Voltron. The boy mustn't have been all that much older than Pidge, had perhaps a year or two on him, and he'd always been quiet. Pidge recalled in passing wondering why he even bothered to come to the youth centre. He clearly wasn't there to participate, even if the volunteers urged everyone to try. He didn't seem to want to be there at all.

"Hey Libby," he said, and maybe it was the profound relief that flooded through him that gave him confidence for he doubted he would have otherwise spoken. It could have just as easily been his curiosity, however. "Who is he?"

A pointing gesture turned Libby's attention towards the boy. Her expression became unreadable; not annoyed, not upset, but something else. "That's Keith," she said, her voice quietening slightly. "He never really says much."

"I got that," Pidge said with a nod. "I was surprised he spoke up at all."

"You and me both," Libby agreed. "He's… Keith doesn't really want to be here. I think he feels like he has to, though. The family he's with at the moment requested something so…" She trailed off, lips folding as though she was catching herself. Her brightness faded briefly, but she deliberately pushed her thoughtfulness aside to turn her bright, crooked smile upon Pidge once more. "But who wouldn't want to be here, right? Especially with Taylor's much-loved games as a drawcard."

Pidge groaned once more, though it was more tokenistic than genuine. He didn't ask further about Keith, because it wasn't his place. Speaking of other kids' home lives, especially when they didn't reveal it themselves – it just wasn't done.

Instead, he let himself be led down the hill by Libby. He might not like Taylor's games but he didn't object quite as much that day. Libby had been right. It had been a step, and after the monumental struggle that step had been, Pidge couldn't bring himself to fight anything anymore. Not now. For once, he simply let himself go with the flow.

* * *

 

_DiffWizard: I told someone today._

_DiffWizard: Or several someones. About being genderfluid._

_DiffWizard: I told a whole group of people, actually. And they didn't hate me._

_BlackLion007: That's fantastic, DiffWizard! Is it in poor taste of me to say I'm proud of you?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm proud of you._

_DiffWizard: No, it's not._

_DiffWizard: I mean, thank you. I appreciate it._

_Sharpshooter18: Good on you, man. That's fantastic. You should be proud of yourself too._

_Sharpshooter18: Takes a lot of guts to come out and say stuff like that._

_Red: You'd know that, would you?_

_Sharpshooter18: Well, it's not exactly in the same boat, but I know it was pretty hard to come out to my family as bi. I thought they'd think I was weird for it._

_Sharpshooter18: They don't, by the way, because my family are the most awesomely understanding people in the world._

_Red: Really?_

_Sharpshooter18: They definitely are._

_Red: That wasn't what I was referring to._

_Red: But anyway, congratulations, DiffWizard._

_Red: You did good._

_Red: Really good._

_Red: You should be proud._

Alone in his room, beneath the glow of his phone that beamed upon his face, Pidge smiled.


	5. Learning A New You

Keith hadn't slept well that night. He hadn't ever slept particularly long most nights but the previous night had been a poorer one than usual. He didn't know what had triggered it because most likely there wasn't a trigger at all.

Sometimes Keith just didn't sleep. It was as simple as that.

He flicked through his phone idly, sitting on the floor and leaning against the end of his bed that he'd vacated almost three hours ago when it became apparent that sleep would elude him. He'd probably have to find a classroom that had been left open at school during lunchtime to curl up beneath a table and get a little bit of shut-eye.

Keith wasn't looking for anything. He never really was when he scrolled absently through his phone, absorbing anything that presented itself to him. He didn't have anything that particularly interested him and almost as often as he found himself caught on reading a news report from halfway around the world, his eyes were glazing into detachedness.

Sometimes he talked. Keith didn't have friends, hadn't had friends for years, but he talked. To the people on Voltron mostly, and perhaps, just maybe, some would call them friends. Keith wasn't sure. He didn't know if that's what they really were. Maybe they were. Maybe he just didn't know how friends were supposed to be.

Not that he minded. In many ways, it was easier not to have friends.

The buzz from his phone was what alerted him to the message filtering through to Voltron. Keith had spent half of the night simply scrolling through messages, reading with half an eye what had been exchanged days before. He didn't know why he did that. He really didn't. He spoke to many of the members, even might have liked them, and they'd opened up to him and one another. But that didn't mean anything. It didn't. It never would because Keith –

_BlackLion007: Well, I just had the most appalling night of sleep I've ever had I think, and that's including in the army when we didn't sleep at all._

_BlackLion007: Sorry for the early morning disagreeability. I hope everyone else is feeling well this morning._

Keith stared at the message for a moment. He liked BlackLion. True, he liked most of the members, or 'paladins' as the Princess insisted on calling them, but other than Sharpshooter who Keith for whatever reason found himself talking to perhaps the most, BlackLion was the one he felt closest to. DiffWitch – or DiffWizard, depending upon circumstances – was smart and ridiculously sarcastic at times in a way that Keith found strangely appealing, and Butterfingers was so unerringly kind that Keith could only imagine him to be more akin to a cuddly puppy than a real person. The Princess too Keith could understand how Sharpshooter had jokingly – jokingly? – professed was a gently descending angel of the bright and feathery kind. She didn't seem to have an offensive bone in her body.

But BlackLion was different. He was the one that most persistently asked Red – asked _Keith_ – for his contribution. Sharpshooter had ceased his efforts after Keith had abandoned him to the chatroom for the second time in a row, but BlackLion was adamant about his attempts. Keith wasn't sure if he was more annoyed or confused.

It didn't stop him from replying, however. BlackLion was like that. It wasn't possible to dislike him either. At times, Keith wondered if he was perhaps the only dislikeable one in the entirety of their Voltron chatroom.

_Red: Hello._

_Red: You're not alone there._

_Red: It must have been the moon, throwing out sleeping patterns. I read somewhere that full moons have some kind of effect._

_BlackLion007: You too?_

_BlackLion007: I'm surprised you're up so early. You didn't sleep well?_

Keith frowned. That was it. He wasn't sure how to respond to such attempts of BlackLion's. He seemed to be always asking, always concerned for Keith's wellbeing for some unfathomable reason. Was it simply because Keith never offered comment on how he felt as everyone else did? He didn't understand that. Why did anyone else have to know? It was fine if others wanted to speak of themselves but why did Keith have to tell them too?

It annoyed him a little, but not enough to urge him to withhold a response.

_Red: No, not really._

_Red: It happens sometimes._

_Red: Nothing particularly noteworthy._

_BlackLion007: I noticed you and Sharpshooter sometimes stay up talking into the morning. You must be exhausted the next day._

_Red: Sometimes._

_BlackLion007: Are you okay?_

_Red: Of course. Why wouldn't I be?_

There was a pause after Keith's words in which he wondered if perhaps his admittedly curt response might have been a little offensive. He didn't mean to be. He just spoke his thoughts most of the time and that was how they came out. His phone buzzed a moment later, however.

_PM: BlackLion007 to Red_

_BlackLion007: Sorry, I don't mean to pry, but are you really okay? I know Sharpshooter always jokes about me being like a parent figure, but I'm just worried._

_Red: You seem to be more like a protective older brother kind to me, actually._

_BlackLion007: Thanks? I guess?_

_BlackLion007: Was that a compliment or a criticism? I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell. It gets a little bit mixed up online._

Keith heard himself snort before he realised he was doing it. BlackLion was almost sadly guileless at times. For someone who had reputedly been in the army, he seemed remarkably innocent at times.

Before Keith could answer, or could think of how best to correctly answer, BlackLion was continuing.

_BlackLion007: Look, Red, I just wanted to talk to you about something. Just hear me out for a second, okay? Then you can disregard anything I'm saying in a heartbeat if you wanted to._

_BlackLion007: Is that okay?_

Keith stared at the words glaringly white on the black backdrop of Voltron. His thumb hovered over his keypad before he replied slowly.

_Red: What are you talking about?_

There was a long pause before BlackLion was replying in an overwhelming rush.

_BlackLion007: Look, so, I don't know how to say this without coming across as superficial or stupid or intrusive so I'm just going to say it how I think it. I'm worried about you. And maybe I don't have the right to be worried because we truly don't know one another very well and I don't know if conversations online with people you haven't even met in person should warrant such consideration, but I wanted you to know._

_BlackLion007: I'm not going to ask what's wrong. It's clear that you don't want to tell anyone and I can respect that, even if I don't understand why. I've experienced things before that I haven't wanted to share with anyone too, so I think I can relate at least a little bit._

_BlackLion007: But what I've found is that recently, talking to people, or more correctly talking to the rest of the paladins on Voltron, has been really helpful. Maybe it's just that verablising it helps. Maybe it's just lessening the weight on your shoulders by sharing it with other people. I don't know, but talking does help._

_BlackLion007: I'm not going to tell you what to do. I'm not going to tell you that you have to talk, because maybe that's not what works for you. I don't even know if I'm assuming to much by offering an open ear to listen to whatever you have to say because maybe you really do have reasons not to speak that a simple listener can't help with. But I just wanted you to know that, if you ever wanted to tell me anything, ask me anything – if you ever needed anything, I'm more than happy to help._

_BlackLion007: Voltron is special to me. I don't know how much that counts for, and I know that it might be a little different to how chatrooms are supposed to work (or according to what that Sendak person keeps saying) but I'd like to think that the people I've come to know here are my friends._

_BlackLion007: You're my friend, Red. If you need anything, absolutely anything, all you have to do is ask._

The script was mammoth in its extensiveness. As Keith scanned the length of it, blinking in surprise at just how long it continued for, he had to wonder if perhaps BlackLion had been planning to write it. If maybe he'd even written up a draft for what he wanted to say before sending it. That in itself was strange.

Why? Why was he so intrusive? Keith didn't know him, not really, and even if he had it wouldn't have meant anything. Keith had learned a long time ago that knowing someone meant precious little. It meant next to nothing, really, because there was always going to be someone more important than Keith was. Sharpshooter would always have someone else to talk to if Keith wasn't there. DiffWitch, the girl who he now knew he'd met from across the room when she was in fact a boy, was comfortable in the youth group with the volunteer woman Libby. Butterfingers had his mom and even BlackLion himself was closest to the Princess out of all of them. Keith didn't need any profound perception skills to realise that much.

But Keith? He didn't have anyone like that. It was alright because he never had. He didn't need anyone. Somehow, however, it always threw him for a loop when someone tried to muscle their way into his little bubble of isolation and self-dependence. First it had been Sharpshooter and now it was the almost frustratingly persistent BlackLion.

His phone buzzed again.

_BlackLion007: Red?_

_BlackLion007: Have I upset you?_

Keith thumbed through the essay-length string of messages briefly once more. He didn't know what to say but his fingers began typing for him anyway.

_Red: No._

_Red: I'm not upset._

_Red: Just surprised, I guess._

_BlackLion007: Surprised?_

_Red: I didn't realise how much Voltron meant to you._

_BlackLion007: It surprises me too, sometimes. It surprises me how much trust I've been able to put in a group of people I've never physically met. Did you know that I haven't even told my family that I've lost my arm?_

Keith stared at the text blankly for a moment. He knew about BlackLion's arm. Barely a week ago BlackLion had revealed to them all the real reason he wasn't continuing in the army. It was sad to hear, even sadder because Keith had grown to understand how much the army had meant to the man on the other side of his screen. He didn't quite understand why BlackLion seemed to think it was the end of his career – because it wasn't, apparently. Keith had looked into that briefly online – but he didn't judge him. They all had their ghosts.

That BlackLion hadn't even told his family yet, however… that was profound in an unexpected way. Keith had never had a family that he could remember, had only truly been close to Tomas after his parents had died, and he knew where that had gotten him. But BlackLion… he was trusting them. He'd trusted the members of Voltron with a secret he hadn't even shared with his family who, Keith knew from how he spoke, BlackLion cared for dearly.

He found himself replying without meaning to once more.

_Red: Why?_

_Red: Why would you tell us and not them?_

A heartbeat and then BlackLion was replying.

_BlackLion007: I don't know. I guess in some ways I feel like I trust you guys more? At least with this. With what truly hurts._

_BlackLion007: Just so you know that, Red, I trust you guys. Though I don't have any expectations for you in return, I wanted you to know that. Just in case you ever wanted to know how much you all do mean to me. It's strange that it's not even been two months, right?_

_BlackLion007: Oh, and by the way? I'm sure Sendak would very much disapprove of this – and likely DiffWitch/DiffWizard too, for that matter, given her/his emphasis on cyber-safety – but I wanted you to know._

_BlackLion007: My name's Shiro._

Keith didn't know how to respond to that. A strange, heavy feeling settled itself in his gut and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Shiro had… what? Offered him his trust? What did it mean by telling him his name? It was, what, his real name?

When Keith's thumb twitched in its hover above his phone screen, he was surprised to notice it shaking slightly. He didn't know why. He didn't understand the tightness that arose from the heaviness in his gut, seeping into his chest. He didn't know why he couldn't bring himself to blink and why he struggled to draw his gaze away from the simple words.

He didn't know why, at the thought of learning BlackLion's name, of learning his name was Shiro, it meant something. Keith didn't know what, but the urge to respond was unshakeable. His thumb moved without his direction.

_Red: Alright. I_

_Red: Alright._

_Red: It's nice to meet you, Shiro._

_Red: My name's Keith._

* * *

_DiffWitch: I'm so excited!_

_DiffWitch: I can't even express it, I'm just so excited!_

_DiffWitch: ARGH!_

_DiffWitch: I didn't even know it was HAPPENING in New York City this year._

_DiffWitch: How didn't I know it was happening?!_

_DiffWitch: This is the best thing in the world. This is the best thing that's ever happened in my entire life._

_DiffWitch: Guys._

_DiffWitch: Guys, you don't even understand._

_PrincessOfAltea: What's happened, Diffwitch? You seem awfully excited._

_DiffWitch: The best thing in the world._

_DiffWitch: The absolute best._

_Sharpshooter18: Just spit it out already._

_BlackLion007: Won't you share it with us? It must be fantastic if you're so excited._

_DiffWitch: It's the Festival!_

_DiffWitch: The Festival for Inventive Arts!_

_DiffWitch: I thought it was down south this year and was really bummed that I couldn't make the trip to Columbus because Mom said I couldn't go, but now I can because it's right here in New York City and I can't believe I'll actually be able to go!_

_DiffWitch: Do you have any idea how fantastic this is? Some of the stuff people come up with – it's insane! Mostly college students with their majors, but that just makes it even better. There's this girl who thinks she's actually built real life, genuine AI – which I don't entirely believe but whatever – and this other guy who's made gloves that when you use ASL in them they vocalise what's being said through a speaker. And some of the artsy stuff, too. There's apparently a mesmerising wall that induces a kind of hypnosis which I'm not to sure about because I don't really believe hypnosis works unless you want it to, but whatever._

_DiffWitch: And I read about this woman, she's an older woman, who's made this sort of headpiece thing that picks up brainwaves to use to control the robot she's built with nothing but her mind and it's super refined and really accurate and I've seen a clip on it and it really is! And they've got a drone! A Rover, I mean, not one of those pathetic excuses for toys, and it's voice commanded and follows verbal cues and it floats to say nothing of its programming and potential hacking capabilities and it's probably the cutest thing in the world! I'm probably going to spend my entire day just staring at that drone because I WANT IT SO MUCH!_

_DiffWitch: I can't believe it's only in three days! I can't believe it!_

_DiffWitch: This is going to be the best day ever._

_DiffWitch has left the chatroom._

_Sharpshooter18: Well._

_Sharpshooter18: That was_

_Sharpshooter18: Crazy._

_Butterfingers: She types so fast. I could hardly keep up!_

_BlackLion007: She was very excited, it would seem._

_PrincessOfAltea: I think it's sweet. She rarely seems so enthusiastic for anything but computers. But then I suppose drones are like computers, yes?_

_Butterfingers: More like robots. They're like aircrafts that can navigate without direct human control._

_Butterfingers: I didn't realise the Festival for Inventive Arts was in New York this year either._

_Butterfingers: How didn't I know?_

_Sharpshooter18: Honestly, I'm just happy she's not picking on me. She can be interested in anything else in the world if she doesn't do that._

_Sharpshooter18: But you're kind of into that stuff, aren't you, Butters?_

_Sharpshooter18: Building stuff?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, I remember you saying._

_PrincessOfAltea: Didn't you build your mother a ramp to help her up the front steps of your house?_

_Butterfingers: That's hardly a feat of engineering. I'd like to think I've made things more impressive than that._

_BlackLion007: It was useful and she needed it. I think that makes it special._

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Butterfingers: Thanks :)_

_Butterfingers: But I'd like to go to the Festival. I think it would be pretty cool._

_BlackLion007: Then you should. Treat yourself._

_Butterfingers: It will just depend on work times, really._

_Sharpshooter18: You can't tell me they wouldn't let you have a day off if you asked. They love you at your bakehouse._

_PrincessOfAltea: I still find it so surreal that you two have actually met one another._

_Sharpshooter18: I know, right?_

_Butterfingers: Yeah, maybe. Maybe I will go._

_Sharpshooter18: Keep an eye out for DiffWitch/DiffWizard when you go!_

_BlackLion007: Such a small world it seems sometimes._

_Butterfingers: That it is._

* * *

The Festival was, in Pidge's opinion, one of the best places she'd ever been. Arcton Stadium itself wasn't anything particularly impressive; more of a hall than a stadium, though perhaps seven times larger than any other hall she'd been in, it was a sprawling expanse of openness, of scuffed floors and plain walls with fluorescent lighting overhead. Distinctly unremarkable, if anything.

No one within its walls cared, however. How could they with the spread below that ceiling? _That_ was what held the real interest.

There were computers. Of course there were computers. But more then that, there were _computers,_ the kind of high tech that Pidge could only dream about and had her all but salivating over as she studied what were bulky and misshapen lines as often as they were sleek and beautiful.

There were screens posted on hastily constructed walls. Pidge passed the hypnosis wall – she didn't pause, for such things had never interested her – and the intricate artworks of technology that were more like sculptures than anything innately technological. There was a structure that looked almost like a rippling fountain at the very centre of the vast stadium, huge in its construction, yet when Pidge paused alongside it she found it flowing not with water but with metallic filaments behind a glass wall. She didn't even know what it was.

There was a cacophony of sound that radiated from the walls, rebounding in deafening volumes and slamming into Pidge's ears in a mixture of voices, electronic clicks and the zips and zaps of electricity itself. There was a myriad of colours, of shapes and _people_ that was so overwhelming it was almost dizzying. It was unseasonably hot inside the stadium, something that the industrial fans did little to relieve, and Pidge immediately regretted she'd dressed for late autumnal weather that morning. She was sweating thickly within the hour.

And yet despite all of that it was worth it. It was entirely worth the discomfort because it was incredible. And perhaps the best part of it of all was the robots.

Pidge liked computers. She lived and breathed them and was fairly certain that her increasing dependence on her glasses – that half of the time she simply forgot to wear – was because she spent so long staring at screens. Computers were her _life_. But robots…

Robots Pidge _loved_. It was the primary reason that she went to the Festival of Inventive Arts in the first place.

She went alone, of course. Pidge always went alone to just about everywhere, because Pidge wasn't the sort of person who had friends in the physical form. She had her Voltron friends – those she talked to every day and who almost seemed to be living in the pockets of one another these days – and those she chatted to on forums who knew her pseudonym. She had even taken to showing her 'face' more in other chatrooms, though none were quite as close to her heart as Voltron's paladins were becoming. Voltron was… her Voltron chatroom was special. She might not have progressed past her initial revelation of who she was slowly growing to accept of herself, but she was self-aware enough to know that she wouldn't have been able to do it without Voltron. Not at all.

Pidge went to the Festival alone but she didn't mind going by herself. She wasn't lonely, not with her phone in her pocket and the notifications for her friends' words buzzing every other minute.

For once, however, Pidge didn't have her phone in hand to contribute her own comments. At that moment, she was thoroughly distracted even from the discomforting press of bodies around her by the woman wearing the tiara.

That's what it looked like, anyway. A tiara. In actuality, the headset was a complex network of cables and lasers that linked the woman's thought processes and wordless directions to the egg-shaped robot standing before her. And it followed them. It actually did what it was told, or it did as far as Pidge could discern.

"It won't be particularly effective for anyone other than myself, as the rate and sequence of my neuronal transmissions have been impressed upon the working memory of the bot itself," the woman was saying to her rapt audience. Even as Pidge watched, the globe-shaped robot that looked nothing if not a glass-fronted egg with arms and legs, raised one of its spindly hands and waved a greeting at the crowd. "I've discerned that simplistic movements such as moderate hand-foot gross motor skills and slow locomotion have a higher rate of success when instructed by an unfamiliar director. However, for someone who has been clocked into the system and the transmissions instilled into 'muscle memory'," she paused and, with a glance towards the robot, drew every eye that wasn't already settled upon it.

The robot was still for all of a second. Then, in a remarkable display of dexterity that shouldn't have been possible for its shape or the thinness of its limbs, it leapt from its feet, turned a flip and landed on what could only be deemed one knee with arms spread wide as though requesting applause.

Which it received. Naturally it did. Pidge was more than ready to add her own support to the ring of clapping hands.

 _I want one_ , Pidge thought to herself as she had on numerous occasions that day. _No, I'd settle for just trying to use it. Even if I could only manage 'simplistic' gross motor and locomotor movements._ With a wistful sigh, she turned and shuffled along with the thronging crowds in a vaguely forward direction.

Pidge's eyes were peeled at every second for the new and interesting, the exciting and unexpected. There was nothing that quite caught her interest, however, like the Rover seven-point-oh.

Pidge all but threw herself through the crowd when she saw it. It was a struggle, like swimming through mud, but she finally made her way to one of the stall fronts and all but climbed atop the cheap table propped before the display.

There it was. _That_ was what Pidge had come to see the most.

There wasn't anything remarkable about the Rover. Not really, or at least probably not to most people. To Pidge, she adored it as soon as she saw it. Triangular pyramidal in shape, the little red lights that scored its polished surface, beaming through grooves in a flashing display of the glowing electronics of its guts, it was perhaps the cutest thing that Pidge had ever seen in her life. And that was to say nothing of the fact that it hovered. It actually hovered.

That wasn't the whole of it, however, and Pidge was regaled with the wonders of the Rover seven-point-oh when the speaker begun his spiel once more. She entirely ignored the incessant buzzing of her phone in her pocket as she focused her entire attention upon the young man standing alongside the floating device, speaking alongside a twitch of hand gestures.

"Pretty typically, it's got visual and experience memory of every interaction that it's engaged in," he said, pointing indicatively as a particularly bright red light beaming from one of the corners. The eye, Pidge supposed, staring at it with rapture. "The design allows it for pretty flexible use, but it's primarily programmed to assist in the navigation and analysis of complex files, simplifying and often reducing into more manageable forms to enable…"

 _In other words, hacking,_ Pidge thought to herself, allowing a small smile to play across her lips. There were so many ways to skirt around the truth that it was almost laughable how obvious it was.

Not that Pidge cared for any untoward and potentially illegal capabilities of the Rover. If anything, it only added to its appeal.

The young man continued talking but Pidge hardly listened. She knew the rundown back to front from reading its stats online and was more than satisfied with simply feasting her eyes on the wonders of what she would quite happily sell her soul for. It was just so cute! Pidge wasn't even sure how long she stood there simply watching it hover and turn as though casting a sidelong glance towards its manufacturer.

And it was an it, Pidge decided. Regardless of what anyone else thought, it didn't seem much like a boy or a girl to her, and she loved it for her. And it definitely would have looked better with green or blue lights rather than red.

"It's kind of cool, isn't it?" A voice said at her side.

Pidge, who had taken to leaning upon the table with her chin resting atop her folded arms, didn't even glance towards the speaker. She wasn't one to interact with strangers in public. Not ever. Still, about this… "That's an understatement."

"I take it this is your favourite thing here today?"

"You have no idea. It was my favourite even before I came."

The speaker – a man from his voice – fell silent. Pidge returned to her own silent staring once more, ignoring the stranger and the familiarly incessant buzzing of her phone in her pocket.

She thought the man had gone away and had all but forgotten him entirely until he continued to speak minutes later. "You're pretty fixated on this, aren't you?"

He was annoying, Pidge decided. Did she look like someone who wanted to engage in conversation? She thought not. Turning with a frown already niggling at her brow, Pidge drew her gaze to the man beside her.

He was tall, a big young man who looked like he could have lifted piles of bricks for a living. A wide smile stretched across his face, scrunching his broad nose slightly, and his eyes were laughing beneath a thick strip of orange bandana. He clasped his phone in one hand, tapping the screen idly with his thumb.

"Can I help you with something?" Pidge asked, not caring in the slightest that her tone was curt if not openly harsh. Couldn't he just leave her alone? She had a drone to gaze at longingly.

"You most certainly could," the young man said, his grin widening further. The eagerness of his response, the slight shuffle closer towards Pidge, would have been disconcerting if he didn't appear so much like an oversized teddy bear. "You could check your phone, DiffWitch, because I've been sending you messages for the past half an hour and you haven't replied once." He paused, his smile fading into a raised eyebrow. "Or is it DiffWizard? Sorry, I should have asked."

Pidge didn't hear his question. She barely heard anything past 'DiffWitch' before somehow, impossibly, her attention was diverted entirely from the drone she longed more than anything to get her hands on. Straightening, Pidge stared up at the big man – he had to be at least head and shoulders taller than her – before scrambling for her phone and snapping Voltron open. A list of familiar yellow text flooded her feed.

_Butterfingers: Hi, DiffWitch._

_Butterfingers: So this might sound weird, but you know how you said you were going to the Festival of Inventive Arts?_

_Butterfingers: Well, not to sound like a stalker or anything – I swear I'm not – but I've wanted to go to that Festival for years except it hasn't been in the area._

_Butterfingers: Anyway, I'm here. I was wondering if you maybe wanted to meet?_

The lines of text continued with equal shortness. " _I've just gone past the grandstand place with all of the hot dogs_ " was followed by " _I guess you're not getting my messages?_ " Then, " _Just as an aside, if you get this just send me a message_ " and " _Do you think it's weird that I'm asking? I swear I'm not a stalker!_ "

Similar phrases, similar questions, followed in a nearly endless stream of conversation every few minutes or so. Sometimes, Butterfingers was apparently more inclined to comment on the wonders of the Festival than request they meet, and other times some of the other members of Voltron cropped up on the feed. Sharpshooters _"That's rough, buddy. A pursued woman can be cruel,"_ was met by Red's " _DiffWitch/Wizard is an intellectual. The Festival is probably more than distraction enough. And validly, too"_.

After a time, the messages faded into a simple recurring theme.

_Butterfingers: DiffWitch?_

_Butterfingers: Or DiffWizard?_

_Butterfingers: DiffWitch/DiffWizard?_

_Butterfingers: :)_

_Butterfingers: DiffWitch/DiffWizard?_

_Butterfingers: DiffWitch/DiffWizard…_

"You must have written this a thousand times," Pidge murmured detachedly as she scrolled through the list.

Butterfingers, for that was surely who it was, laughed a deep, belly laugh that instantly drew Pidge's attention towards him. His toothy grin seemed to take up his entire face. "Yeah, well, I've basically just been repeating the same thing for the last ten minutes to see if your phone's buzzing would annoy you enough into checking it. I can actually hear it, you know. I'm pretty sure you scared off the guy standing next to you; he was giving your pocket a strange look like he expected it to explode."

Pidge stared up at him. She stared and stared before, after a moment, she felt a smile growing across her face. Pidge didn't interact with people from over the internet – her dad had been the one to instil her 'stranger danger' precaution – but Voltron was different. They'd always been different. Special, even. And despite herself and the fact that she avoided human contact in place of computers at every opportunity, she found herself smiling.

This was Butterfingers.

Her friend.

Her friend from online. From _Voltron_.

Butterfingers must have noticed the change within Pidge for his grin grew less teasing and more welcoming. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he held out his hand towards her. "You believe me? I'm Butterfingers."

Pidge didn't hesitate. She couldn't. This was her friend. She'd known it even before she'd met him face-to-face. Pidge grasped his hand tightly with her own, and her fingers were immediately swallowed in his warm grasp. "I'm DiffWitch," she said, and couldn't quite withhold the almost manic grin that strained her cheeks.

"I guessed," Butterfingers said, squeezing her hand. "You said you wanted to see the Rover."

"Well, it is awesome," Pidge said, sparing a glance over her shoulder for the little pyramidal drone with its flashing red lights. Not for long, however, because _Butterfingers_ from _Voltron_ was standing right before her. "It's probably my favourite thing here."

"Have you seen everything already, then?" Butterfingers asked, releasing her hand just before it would have become awkward.

Pidge shrugged. "It's not necessary to know that the Rover is the best thing here."

Butterfingers laughed again in his deep, bellowing voice that boomed over the surrounding bubble of noise. "I'll take your word for it. I would quite like to check everything else out, though. What do you say about coming with me? Or," he paused, and his grin faded behind a concerned frown that for some reason Pidge didn't believe to be sincere even for a second. "I mean, if that's okay with you. I know you're edgy about strangers."

Pidge snorted and couldn't help but laugh as she rolled her eyes. "That doesn't apply to you now, does it? Not to people I know."

Butterfingers was grinning instantly once more. "I hope so. I don't like to think that we're strangers. Although," he stuck out his hand once more. "Officially? I'm Hunk. Nice to meet you."

Pidge grasped his hand once more in an instant. "Pidge."

"Like Pigeon?"

"No, like Pidge."

Hunk laughed. _Hunk_ , not just Butterfingers anymore. Then he let go of Pidge's hand again and, half-turning, gestured over his shoulder. "Okay, like-Pidge. Shall we go and see the Inventive Arts delights together? I'm kind of keen."

Pidge was already falling into step at his side before she'd thought about it. A sudden flood of warmth rushed through her, unexpected and unfamiliar and yet almost like that she'd only ever experienced around Matt. With a feeling like that, there was no way she could pass up the opportunity to accompany Hunk.

Normally, Pidge didn't like people. She didn't talk to anyone face-to-face and that was just the way it was. She didn't _want_ to. But Voltron, the Princess-named paladins – they were different. They'd always been and always would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a relatively short one, sorry, everyone. Next chapter, though - next chapter's the one where everything really starts.  
> Thanks for reading again, and to all of my wonderful commenters from last week. Hopefully I'll see you next week!


	6. Situations

_07/10 – 06.02pm_

_Sharpshooter18: Oh my god._

_Sharpshooter18: Oh my god, it's happening._

_Sharpshooter18: I never really believed this day would come, but it's actually happening._

Rolling his eyes, Keith turned the corner from the main road and started down the familiar street that bypassed his local football field. He knew what Sharpshooter was running his mouth about and it was utterly ridiculous. Even so, he couldn't help but let the urge to smile play across his lips.

_Red: Could you not?_

_Sharpshooter18: No, I think I really have to._

_Red: You don't._

_Sharpshooter18: Actually, I do. History has been made today._

_Red: Has anyone ever told you what a drama queen you are?_

_Sharpshooter18: Many times. On a frequent basis._

_Red: Apparently not frequently enough._

_Sharpshooter18: Oh, the snark!_

_Sharpshooter18: But that doesn't detract from the gravity of the situation._

_Red: Drama queen._

_Sharpshooter18: How could I not be excited? You've never said that you like anything in the entire world and then you just drop a bombshell like that?_

_Sharpshooter18: You actually LIKE something?_

_Sharpshooter18: And sword fighting of all things? That's so unexpected. I would have at least assumed gunfights. Where's your modernity?_

_Red: Gunfights are ugly and guns are OP._

_Red: Besides, I told you I my favourite colour was red, so this whole 'liking' business is hardly exceptional._

_Sharpshooter18: … Did you just call guns OP?_

_Sharpshooter18: Unbelievable._

_Sharpshooter18: Still, it doesn't detract from the situation. You actually like something!_

Shaking his head, Keith glanced up from his phone as he stopped at the edge of a road. It was nearly dark, and unable to work that afternoon – because apparently his manager wasn't supposed to let him work more than full-time hours, even if he wanted to – he'd nonetheless delayed returning to the Tulson's house for as long as possible. Until he'd been kicked out of the school library, that was. Apparently the librarian respected his commitment to his studies but 'had to insist he take himself home' before she locked him inside.

Keith wouldn't have cared. He would have preferred to avoid the Tulson's entirelyfor that matter, and sleeping at school wouldn't have been so bad. Sara and Peter were growing more and more forward with their questioning of him – where he went in the afternoons, why he was disinclined to share dinner with them, what time he finished work exactly and _where_ he even worked – and Keith didn't like it. It was one thing talking to Sharpshooter, or to BlackLion, or any of the other members of Voltron in his chatroom, but they were different. For whatever reason, to Keith they were different. But the Tulsons? He couldn't be with them. He couldn't even be around them, and not only because Clyde had grown only more antagonistic of late. Olly too, for that matter, though Keith suspected it was merely a by-product of mimicking his older brother.

It was Sara and Peter. Keith didn't like them pushing themselves on him. He didn't like it at all.

 _Less than a year_ , he coached himself more times than he could count. _Less than a year and I'm out of this_. It was one of few reassurances that he had when facing the unnecessary questioning of his foster family. That, and the fact that he had people to talk to. People like Sharpshooter who, for whatever reason, had become the one Keith spoke to the most. He didn't know why it had happened like that, especially given that they appeared to be quite different people. Maybe it was simply their similar hours of freedom to speak?

Or not-freedom, Keith reasoned, for he was sure he wasn't the only one of the two of them to have the Voltron App open in class. Tapping through his phone, Keith shot out a quick reply to his waiting conversation partner.

_Red: You say that like you don't think I actually enjoy things._

_Sharpshooter18: Well, as far as I know you don't._

_Sharpshooter18: I feel like I've struck gold by finding out._

_Sharpshooter18: So what sort of things do you like? Do you have, I don't know, a favourite sword or something?_

Crossing the road, Keith paused in step as he made to turn down the next street. The darkness was thick enough to warrant the assistance of the overhead streetlights and by the glow just above him Keith could see the roadside clearly enough. He could not, however, see the source of the sound he'd just heard.

A cry. It had sounded like a cry.

The sound itself didn't worry him. Not really. The neighbourhood Keith passed on his way from the school and the Tulson's house wasn't ideal but it was hardly the worst in the region. It was only unfortunate – or in Keith's case advantageous – that the Tulson's lived so far away from the school at all. Most students who lived at such a distance took the bus home.

Not Keith. He would rather take the nearly hour walk through back streets and past fields, over the bridge of a train station and along the highway, than get back to the Tulson's house with any kind of promptness. He didn't want to spend anymore time with the people he was forced upon than he had to. He didn't want to spend time with anyone more than he had to.

Except the paladins of Voltron, that was. They were different. It was easier with them, even if BlackLion did persist in asking his awkward questions and the Princess maintained her encouraging delight at any interaction they made.

That voice, though. It had definitely sounded like a cry. A shout, either in anger or borderline fear. It wouldn't have been the first time Keith had encountered untoward behaviour that teetered upon an openly violent edge. Not the first time by half.

Keith shouldn't pause. He shouldn't get involved. He didn't talk to people and he didn't make friends or form attachments. Not after the first time. Not after what had happened with Tomas. And yet despite all that, Keith had always had a problem with biased fights. When it was five against one, or three on one, or even two, he didn't like it. It wasn't fair. There was so little already unfair in the world that, despite everything, Keith couldn't help himself. He had to just check. He always did.

With any luck, it would be nothing. Hopefully.

_Red: Hold on a second, I've just got to check something._

_Sharpshooter18: Oh, no way are you getting out of this!_

_Sharpshooter18: Do you realise how long I've been trying to drag something out of you?!_

_Sharpshooter18: You're not escaping!_

_Red: Calm down, I'll just be a minute._

Shaking his head and ignoring the buzzing of his phone that immediately restarted with his parting words, Keith started down the street in the direction he'd heard the cry. Luck. With luck it would be nothing. Hopefully.

 _But when have I ever been lucky?_ Keith couldn't help but think. The thought didn't slow his step any.

As it turned out, it wasn't nothing.

The road was lit by streetlamps but the huddle of figures in a suspiciously slouching circle was muffled by the darkness welling between spotlights of illumination. Keith paused as he caught sight of them, saw with a brief glance the number of clearly allied individuals by their bumping of shoulders. He saw the single figure lying sprawled on the ground as though thrown to the concrete by a brutal fist. The kid's struggles to push himself to his feet were far from successful.

Keith shouldn't care. He shouldn't. Yet even knowing that, a spark of anger flared within him, clenching his fists and lengthening his stride to a run as he hastened down the road.

They were camped alongside a gloomy, unlit house, hidden from open view by the shadow of a sidelong fence that seemed taller for the encroaching evening. Jeers and taunts were audible within fifty feet. An outburst of laughter was broken by a high, sharp cry that faded into whimpering sobs. That was what Keith had heard. The kid on the ground – his cries were brief and a struggle, but they resounded more for their desperation.

Keith drew to a pause barely a handful of steps from the huddle of tormenters. They were big kids, looked to be perhaps a little older than Keith himself, and there were four of them. Even so, even outnumbered as he was and likely incapable of doing anything himself, Keith's teeth clenched almost painfully as one of them bend double and reached a hand for their victim's collar. The fallen kid was half lifted him from the ground by his jacket. "What was that, Sean? Could have sworn you told us to fuck off?"

Sean, hanging from the young man's grasp, scrambled feebly at the hand at this neck. Keith couldn't really see his face but his motions were feeble enough to suggest he'd either taken a beaten or was nearly passed out in terror. "I didn't," Sean uttered with audible struggle, and the thickness of his voice suggested a blocked nose. Broken? "'M sorry, James, I didn't mean to –"

"You've been a right little shit from day one, Sean," James said, shaking Sean by his collar slightly so he jostled like a ragdoll. "Don't try and tell me that it wasn't you who scribbled your fucking tags all across the station. I _know_ it was you."

"I – I wasn't –"

"Don't try to deny it, Freddy saw you."

Keith wasn't quite sure what any of that meant. It sounded like perhaps Sean wasn't quite so innocent as his circumstances would suggest. Yet even so, even if he wasn't, Keith couldn't leave him. Four against one – it wasn't fair. Keith _couldn't_ leave him.

"What are you doing?" He asked when he was barely a handful of steps away, raising his voice just enough to be heard.

The jeers and laughter stuttered to a halt as faces pale in the gloom turned towards him. Keith couldn't make out their expressions but he didn't think he had to. He didn't need to. One of the other young men took half a step towards him. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Are you beating up some kid?" Keith asked, gesturing to where Sean still hung limply from James' grasp. At least James had turned his attention from his victim, which Keith could only be grateful for. Sean seemed to be nothing if not a half-broken dummy.

"Who's asking?" James, apparently the leader of their group, asked in an overloud voice.

"No one in particular."

"Then butt the fuck out," James replied. "It's none of your business and the little shit deserves it." And with that, he raised a fist and smacked it into Sean's face front and centre to the sound of a pitiful squawk.

That was it for Keith. That wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It didn't matter that Keith didn't care about anyone in particular because that was irrelevant. What James had just done? That _wasn't right_.

Keith darted forwards. He slipped through the clutch of encouraging onlookers. And he delivered a solid push kick to James' back that sent him sprawling and his grasp on Sean's collar flying loose. "Don't just hit people when they're helpless. If you're going to fight, fight fair."

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence where no one moved. James, toppled on his side alongside a similarly fallen Sean, turned his face up towards Keith. For a second, Keith could make out his expression. Just a second, and then he didn't have time to see anything else. "You fucking shit! Don't think you can just –"

Keith didn't think. Neither did anyone else, apparently, for in an instant the stasis erupted. Keith didn't think because if he paused to think then he likely would have gotten his neck snapped.

A body launched itself at him, a fist swinging, and Keith danced backwards. Another followed, a guttural shout growling from his lips, and Keith dodged around him. Then he retaliated. Fists raised defensively before him, he struck – a jab-cross to the face, ducking a swing, an upper cut to the gut and an upwardly swinging elbow that sent one of the men reeling. Keith spun, ducked another swing, didn't quite miss a fist that grazed his shoulder, and launched himself onto the offensive.

They'd underestimated him, and Keith wasn't surprised. He was younger than perhaps all of them, and he was outnumbered. But Keith had lived his whole life fighting off bastards who thought him less because he was different. Because he was 'weird'. It was learn to protect himself correctly, with adept defences and proper strikes, or end up beaten to a pulp just like Sean had been.

Keith wasn't the kind of person to take a beating lying down.

Not a single one of the men held back, but there was nothing refined to their motions. There was no skill or even experience behind their attempted strikes, a clear example of all bark and no bite. Keith popped one of his opponent's elbows in what was nearly a break, provoking a sharp cry before he toppled him with a kick to the back of his knee. He jumped backwards to escape a fumbling punch before darting in close, a hook punch of his own followed by a sweeping kick that sent that one attacker stumbling and crashing to the ground too. A punch, a kick, a dodge, a block – Keith let himself respond more with instinct than with any real thought. Fighting was what he was good at and perhaps the only thing he really _was_ good at because Keith… he had to be.

 _If only Sharpshooter knew that_ this _was the only thing I could really do_ , he heard himself think detachedly. The thought was fleeting.

He didn't avoid his own bruising. A fist winded him in the gut and Keith was nearly felled by another that caught him across the cheek. The spreading sting of abused flesh was negligible for the moment, however, and Keith hardly considered it. He ignored the kick that clipped his ankle and caused a limp with his next step, the slap that caught the back of his head and rocked him into brief, blinding dizziness, the bastard that caught his wrist as he landed a punch and twisted until Keith's fingers twitched in a spasm. He ignored it all, thrust aside the discomfort and pain, and defended in vicious attack.

He could not ignore, however, the knife that appeared in James' hand

He knew it was James. James was the mouthy one, the one that ordered his friends to "Hit him!" and "Beat the crap out of the little shit!" He didn't quite intervene, barely stepping into the thick of the brawl, and Keith didn't spare him a moment of his attention. Keith knew he was the better fighter in the group but they weren't as incompetent as their flailing limbs would suggest. And there were more of them. More always made for a greater challenge.

Except apparently, after an indiscernible time, James had enough. When a firm shove of Keith's foot in his gut sent the man directly before him sprawling, James jumped into his place. Keith barely had a chance to see more than that flash of a knife, to feel a moment of horror, before he was stumbling backwards with a sharp slash scoring his belly.

For a second he was frozen. Not quite shocked but surprised. It didn't hurt, felt hardly deep enough to hurt, but… a knife? The man had just pulled a – a _knife?_ These guys were serious. They really, truly wanted to hurt him. Or perhaps they'd wanted to hurt Sean? Would they have cut him to pieces if Keith hadn't intervened moments before?

James' gasped laugh dragged him from his thoughts. "You're like a fucking spitting cat, aren't you? All claws and punches." His amusement was audible but clearly more angry than humorous. "That's enough, though. That's a-fucking-nough."

Keith didn't stand a chance against them after that. He knew he didn't, and for the first time in the fight he wondered if he'd made the wrong decision by stepping in. Or involving himself in such a way, anyway. He couldn't have left Sean to be beaten within an inch of his life. The kid hadn't moved from where James had dropped him, despite the fight at his side. But maybe… Keith just wasn't enough to face four men bigger than himself alone and certainly not with a weapon involved. He wasn't good enough.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't try. He wouldn't stop fighting. He wouldn't back down because he couldn't do that. Keith kept an eye on James and his knife but he fought back like the spitting cat he apparently seemed.

It was worse, though. Keith couldn't keep it up. James was a taunting menace with his knife and though he clearly wasn't holding it correctly, the simple presence of a blade in a fistfight was threatening enough. Keith dodged out of its way only to receive a pummelling fist to his gut that felt like it might have broken something. He slammed an elbow across his opponents jaw but had to stumble into a waiting strike that sent him almost to the ground as James swept his knife his way once more and scored a second gash through his shirt.

This time it was deeper. It stung. Through throbbing adrenaline, Keith started to feel it all hurt; the blossoming bruises, the scrapes, the slices of James' knife. It was just a shitty little switchblade as far as Keith could discern, but that hardly mattered. It was a knife in a fistfight. It dominated.

As he dodged James' laughing attack once more, as a kick to the side of his knee found him crumpling briefly towards the ground, Keith had a moment to think. To really regret. To curse that he _really_ shouldn't have stepped in. Then he snapped.

_Fuck this shit, I've had enough._

He hurt. Something in his chest made what little breaths he could manage ache with every gasp. His knuckles were bruised and swelling and his knee definitely wasn't working right. But he'd had enough and Keith was done with taking shit from people.

When James lunged towards him, passing through the ring of his friends, Keith caught him. He made a leaping grab at his wrist, ignoring the passing slice that grazed his finger, and yanked. A twist, a pull, and James was crying out in surprise as he fell almost on top of Keith. Only for a second, however, before he fell silent.

That tended to happen when one had a knife pressed to ones throat.

The bursts of frustration mingled with jeers from those surrounding them abruptly silenced too. Keith didn't spare anyone but James his attention, and as close as they both were collapsed on the unforgivingly hard sidewalk, he could see James' face pale. He saw the thin smile slip from James' lips and dark eyes widened slightly.

"Don't," he began, but Keith cut him off.

"I'm only going to ask once. Fuck off, or I'm putting your own shitty little switchblade through your jugular. Alright?"

None of them questioned that Keith would do it. Maybe he sounded sincere in his threat. Maybe he looked like he really would do it. Keith wasn't entirely sure at that moment if he wouldn't. He hurt and he abruptly _hated_ the men who'd taken to beating the shit out of both himself and the stranger Sean.

James swallowed thickly beneath the pressure of his knife at his throat. Then he began to nod, thought better of the attempt and swallowed once more. "Alright. Alright, whatever. Just… alright. I'm leaving."

"You do that," Keith growled, and as James struggled to rise to his feet he followed his motion. His ankle and knee protested the simple motion and he couldn't place weight properly on his right leg, but it hardly mattered. Keith was the one with the knife and apparently that meant power. Control.

The men who were hardly even men at all didn't stick around for long. It was almost surprising how fast they managed to disappear, how ludicrous it was that they would flee from a knife that wasn't even as long as Keith's hand. He watched them disappear at a rapid step that turned quickly into a run, fading into the darkness of night.

They disappeared. Then Keith collapsed.

It was much a crumple of limbs as a deliberate lowering to his knees, sinking himself down to the ground alongside Sean. Keith crawled to his side, ignoring the bite of concrete through his jeans, and reached a hand for limply sprawling figure.

"Hey. Hey, Sean. Are you okay?"

Shaking Sean's shoulder, repeating his name, didn't seem to do any good. He was a small guy, perhaps not even as tall as Keith was himself, and he was a mess. Blood splattered his face from a clearly broken nose, a bruise sprouting on his forehead already beginning to darken the skin. He was breathing, that much Keith could discern – it would have been impossible to mishear the sickly bubbling sounds stuttering from each gurgling gasp.

But he wasn't responding, and that was probably a bad thing. Keith couldn't think anything but _bad_ and _need to do something._ He couldn't even think straight enough to really worry. Maybe he'd been hit in the head harder than he'd realised.

Dropping the switchblade with a clatter, Keith reached into his pocket for his phone. His fingers barely cooperated in their bruising stiffness, and it was a struggle to punch in the digits for nine-one-one. A professional voice of utter composure picked up in moments and, at a brief word, he was transferred to the ambulance services. Another coolly professional voice resounded in his ear in query.

"I need help," was all Keith could think to say. He stared down at where Sean lay before him, unmoving. "I've just found someone who was kind of beaten up. He's passed out and won't wake up."

"Alright, we'll get someone to you straight away," the voice responded, and it was somehow soothing to have the situation even briefly, distantly, taken from Keith's hands. As a series of rapid fire questions was asked of him – who are you? What's your name? Where are you located? – were sent his way, Keith responded with a murmur of increasingly less lucidity. By the time he hung up he couldn't hear his own voice properly.

That was probably a bad thing too.

How long he waited Keith wasn't sure. His knees hurt from his awkward seat on the ground. His gut felt like it had been kicked by a horse and the pain of his breathing suggested something might be really wrong with his ribs. His face stung more noticeably now and he found he had to blink with more frequency than usual for the blurriness that was descending upon him. Or maybe that was just night settling more heavily. Keith wasn't sure. He couldn't tell.

The slashes from the knife were probably the least concerning of the lot of his injuries, and after he pressed a hand to his belly that came away only thinly coated in the darkness of blood, Keith ignored it. He ignored the knife itself after, with a glance to were he'd dropped it beside Sean – it really was a shitty piece of work, and would likely barely do any real damage even if wielded properly – he snorted painfully, and turned away from it.

And waited.

How long?

Keith didn't know.

Only when the ambulance sirens sounded in the distance was Keith drawn back to the act of rapid blinking clarity his vision. With a struggle, he somehow managed to heave himself to his feet, and he instantly regretted it when every muscle within him seemed to protest and he couldn't catch his breath for what seemed like an eternity. But he didn't slide back to his feet and when the ambulance wailed to a stop alongside them Keith took himself dutifully out of the way to allow the paramedics space.

He even allowed himself to be ushered into the back of the ambulance alongside the unresponsive Sean, though by no particular desire of his own. Keith couldn't protest when the paramedics asked him along to get his statement and was shunted into a seat wedged at the very back of the vehicle, out of the way.

Keith didn't mind. Out of the way was far easier than in anyone's notice. Dropping his chin and staring at the scuffed knees of his jeans, Keith only had to speak when, an insurmountable time later, a woman paused at his side in the process of shuffling around the gurney Sean was rested upon.

"Are you alright?" She asked, bending down slightly so that Keith could just see the edge of her face in his unraised line of sight.

"I'm fine," he replied quietly.

"You look like you've taken a beating too. Are you injured at all?"

"I'm fine."

There was a moment of pause when the other driver called something from the front of the vehicle. Then the woman was speaking once more. "What's you name? Can you tell me your name?"

Keith didn't think about denying the woman. He didn't much like anyone, but at that moment he'd tell her anything just to get her to shut up. His head was pounding loud enough to nearly drown out the sound of the wailing siren and every ache within him was struggling to make itself more profoundly noticed.

Blinking slowly, Keith spared a moment to glance up into the woman's open, questioning face. "Keith," he said. "My name's Keith."

* * *

Stepping out through the automatic doors, Shiro sighed heavily. He didn't much like going to the main hospital. He didn't enjoy seeing the doctor and making his way through sterile halls and past patients who he _knew_ had it worse than him yet for some reason didn't serve as incentive enough to drag him from his slump.

He was better. Slightly. And not just physically, either. Living at the rehab centre for nearly two months had found him slowly clamber onto the mend, but not only because of the support groups and discussions with psychologists and rehabilitation officers that he spoke to on a daily basis. Shiro would be lying if he said his friends didn't play a big part in his 'feeling better'.

Not his old friends. Not those he'd made in the army, or outside of his work. Not the few friends he thought he might still have from his schooling days or even his family. It was the paladins from Voltron, the ones that Shiro could pick up his phone and talk to at a moments notice and almost always receive a direct reply at any time of the day. They were the ones that truly made a difference. A noticeable difference.

There was the Princess who Shiro still felt he could relate to the most, and not only because of their mutual hospitalisation. They never really talked about their circumstances – Shiro had admitted to all of his friends he'd lost his arm but the Princess had kept an apologetic silence on her own circumstances – but that hardly mattered. It was that they spoke and shared, that they could commiserate that regardless of how much they talked to them all, they both were just slightly removed from those younger than them.

There was Butterfingers who had a heart of gold and made Shiro smile with his incessant use of smileys. There was Sharpshooter who always had a thousand and one things to say about everything, and most of them animated and jovial. There was Diffwitch – or DiffWizard – who Shiro ad gradually grown to realise was almost frighteningly intelligent and had a sarcastic wit to match.

And there was Red. Or Keith, as he'd called himself. That had felt like a big step, and Shiro didn't care what the aggressive participant Sendak had said about maintaining privacy in their most recent intrusion. It felt like it meant something that Red had told him that much. Red had always been the most private, the most quietly supportive, of the rest of the paladins of Voltron, and it had concerned Shiro that he hadn't spoken more. Those quietest often had the most hurt to hide, and as his friend Shiro was concerned for him.

But Red had told him his name and it had been weeks since he'd last abruptly signed out of a chatroom because one too many intrusive questions had been asked of him. That felt like progress. Shiro liked Red. He liked talking to him and respected the fact that, in spite of something that was clearly bothering him and holding him back from speaking, he chose to come back time and time again to speak to the rest of their friends.

The psychologists helped. The group meetings were beneficial and Shiro was more than grateful of the support of the nurses and officers at the rehab centre. But he would be lying if he said that Voltron didn't play a big part in helping him get better. It was those moments of escape into conversation that pulled Shiro though his maudlin.

Night had fallen by the time he stepped from the hospital and made his way back to the Rehab Centre. The automatic doors closing behind him, he paused briefly to breathe deeply of the air just slightly touched with the flavour of cigarettes wafting from the nearby smoking area. Turning, Shiro made his circuitous route back to the centre, hand shoving into his pocket and steps slow and idling.

There was a route through the hospital itself that would mean Shiro didn't have to walk outdoors to make his way back to the centre, but he liked the walk. He found that, closeted as he was in the centre most hours of the day and permitted to the gym only for one hour in the morning and the afternoon, he appreciated the reprieve. The darkness was complete, broken only by the distant lights of the hospital and those dotting the still-overflowing parking lot and roadside. The hospital was always buzzing with activity, even in the depths of night.

It was cooling down, autumn gradually fading towards winter, and Shiro was glad to have brought a jacket with him from the centre to stave off the chill. It was deceptive sometimes, what with the conditioned temperature of indoors. At times, days and changing weathers, the rising and falling of the sun, could pass almost without notice. It was just another reason that Shiro enjoyed taking himself outside. There wasn't much besides infrastructure and passing cars to see, but in some ways it was a blessing to behold in exchange for the serenely pristine hospital halls.

Rounding the eastern side of the expansive plot of Carla Fey's Relief and Emergency Department, Shiro paused in step. Right there, right in the centre of the turning bay for ambulance arrival, was perhaps the only square of land on this side of the hospital complex that had a hint of greenery to it. Shiro knew. He'd tallied all of the possible placed that such could be found and stowed their locations in his mind for future reference.

Pausing at the passing of an ambulance that spun into the bay, he took himself to the little patch of trees and shrubs and simply sunk in its midst. There was no need to hurry back to the centre; so long as he was back by eight o'clock the nurses didn't mind. Proving himself mentally stable enough to walk to the main wards of the hospital afforded Shiro some degree of freedom.

Because he remained there, watching as the occupants of the ambulance piled out and not moving even when quietness descended once more, Shiro saw the entirety of what happened. He noted the pair of figures that were swept through the doors of Emergency, one on a gurney and the other directed by the paramedic's beckoning. He watched detachedly as the doors slid shut behind them, fiddling idly with only his phone as his now-constant companion. Leaning against the sole tree of the infinitesimal grove, Shiro was in the process of swiping Voltron open with familiar fingers – he'd gotten much better with his left hand these days – when the doors hissed open to release a fleeing figure.

He was running, Shiro noted with a blink of surprise. Or running and stumbling, more correctly. A kid who looked barely eighteen, he almost collapsed onto the sidewalk in the glow of the hospital before pushing himself to his feet and scrambling away. Shiro got a glimpse of a red and white jacket, a head of dark, overlong hair and what looked to be a bruise erupting on his cheek before his attention was drawn to the nurse that appeared at the doors behind him, hastening in the kid's wake.

"Keith! Keith, just wait a moment, we're not going to hurt you but you're injured. Please, just let us –"

Keith, as it happened, didn't wait. Scrambling away as though terrified of the woman, he all but teleported for his speed of escape into the darkness. To the sounds of the nurse's cried, "Keith, wait!" he fled into the night.

For a moment, Shiro was frozen in surprise. At the scene. At the situation. Only for a moment, however, before he was running. Breaking from the grove, Shiro leapt into a sprint immediately in Keith's wake without sparing a word or thought to the nurse behind him.

Keith.

Keith was…

It might not be the Keith he knew, but Shiro couldn't help but wonder. But hope? Maybe it was a hope. Maybe Shiro really did want to meet him.

Sprinting through along the sidewalk, regretting the poor excuse for shoes he wore, Shiro sped after Keith. His eyes peeled the darkness almost frantically, scanning his surroundings – the parking lot that faded to the street side that in turn morphed into a series of houses positioned stoically on the roadside. The nurse had said he was injured. Injured? Had something happened? _Was_ he Shiro's friend Keith? Keith wasn't exactly a common name these days, and especially not for someone who appeared little more than a teenager.

What if it was? What if it really was him? Shiro felt his step pick up pace. That mattered. It mattered if it was Keith, if he was injured, and damn Shiro's curfew because he would ensure he found him and make certain he was alright.

For barely a minute Shiro was worried he'd lost him. Through the thickness of night broken by passing cars, he couldn't see anything. Until, slowing and nearly stopping, he caught sight of the red-jacketed figure as he stumbled in step at the end of the road and reached a hand for the telegraph pole standing like a sentinel before the curb.

He was injured. There was nothing about his stance, that he slumped to the ground as though his legs couldn't support him anymore, that could be anything but. Why he'd fled from the hospital Shiro didn't know, but if he'd come to learn anything of Keith over the past months it was that he wasn't exactly conventional.

Hastening across the distance between them, breath coming fast for more than his brief run, Shiro immediately dropped to his knees beside Keith. The kid was younger than he'd thought he was online, or maybe it was simply because of the pain the twisted his features and curved him upon himself, bending him nearly double. And yet in spite of that, in spite of the pain that was very clearly nearly overwhelming him, he fought it back. He struggled to conceal it and wipe it from his face, only to have it rush forth once more with eyes squeezed closed and brow crumpled.

In that moment, Shiro realised he'd already accept that Keith was his friend. It might have been a leap, an assumption, but he couldn't help but _know_. Such small things, such little things, even hitherto unseen, was just too much like his friend.

"Hey," Shiro said, struggling to keep concern from overwhelming his voice. "Keith, hey."

"Just leave me alone," Keith said harshly, chin tucked to chest. "Seriously, leave me the hell alone. I'm fine."

"Keith, it's Shiro," Shiro said, in a deliberately slow, loud tone. "And I'm not going to leave you alone because you're clearly not fine."

His words seemed to take a moment to register in Keith's ears, and Shiro watched him closely, eyes grazing over the wide bruise darkening his cheek, the hint of sweat peppering his forehead visible from the streetlight overhead, as he waited expectantly. Then, in sudden burst of realisation, Keith snapped his attention towards him. His wide, dark eyes blinked blearily.

"Shiro?"

Keith's voice wavered slightly, though Shiro thought it less from fear and more an uncontrollable effect of pain. His gaze locked upon Shiro's face but he didn't quite uncurl himself, his knees drawn to his chest. Shiro was concerned to notice the arm pressed across his belly as though holding himself together. He knew injuries and he knew what they looked like. Keith was definitely not fine.

"Is it really you?"

At Keith's words, words that rang detachedly in Shiro's own mind, he nodded, attention drawn back to Keith's face. His expression was reserved, but beneath that reservation was something like stupefaction. Shiro could understand that too. Meeting someone from Voltron… Butterfingers and Sharpshooter and DiffWitch had all experienced it to his knowledge, but not him. It was a surreal experience, putting a face to the ruddy text that had been all he'd had of Red.

"It's me," he said. "Small world, huh?"

"Small world," Keith echoed. Shiro wasn't sure if he was agreeing with him or simply parroting his words. "What are you doing here? How do you… how do you know I'm –?"

"The hospital," Shiro said, shuffling forwards in his crouch slightly. "Carla Fey Hospital. That was the one you just pulled into."

"I," Keith began, before he seemed to lose the ability to speak for his staring instead.

"Keith, you need to go back," Shiro said. "You're clearly not well. What happened? Did someone hurt you?"

Of course someone had hurt him. Shiro didn't need to be an ex-soldier to recognise a shiner when he saw one. But it was clearly more than a simple bruise and that worried Shiro. Keith was seriously hurt if the kid who wouldn't let himself show pain even in his perceived privacy was slumped to the ground in visible physical distress.

Except that Keith was shaking his head almost violently, eyes squeezed closed once more. "No. I'm fine."

"Keith, I can see that someone hurt you and –"

"I'm not going back to the hospital," Keith said vehemently, head still shaking. The arm around his belly visibly tightened. "Stop it. Please stop it. Just go away."

It hurt just a little bit to be told to leave, to be told as much by one of his paladin friends. But Shiro thrust that hurt aside. Keith was injured. He was bound to speak in a frenzy at the moment. Keeping his tone as calm as possible, Shiro asked, "Why don't you want to go back? The nurses and doctors – they just want to make sure you're alright."

"I don't want to," Keith said, and there was almost a hysterical edge to his words. "I don't want to go back."

"Why wouldn't you –?"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Keith cut him off, and his words were nearly a cry. His eyes snapped open and he turned to Shiro with a mixture of imploring and angry desperation. "Why can't everyone just leave me alone? I never _asked_ for this. I never _asked_ for anyone to notice, so why can't everyone just _leave me alone!_ "

Shiro flinched slightly at his words, as much for their plea as their rage. Keith was a crumpled mess, yet his sorry need was tangible. "Keith," he murmured, at a loss.

"Please," Keith replied. He didn't quite curl into himself, didn't cry, but there was very pronounced desperation in his words. "Can you please just leave me alone? I don't want to go back. I just – want to be – left alone."

Shiro could only stare. He stared down at the beaten boy before him and for a moment couldn't think of a word to say. He wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to talk to him as his friend because they _were_ friends. But more than that, he wanted to help him. Shiro had been reserved, withdrawn, and yes, even self-pitying in the past months. And Voltron had helped him overcome that. It had helped him because knowing those who he cared for and helping them helped him in turn.

So Shiro wouldn't leave. He just didn't know what to do otherwise. For a long moment he simply stared at Keith as he – yes, Keith was definitely struggling to breathe. Reaching slow, tentative fingers forwards, Shiro curled his hand around Keith's shoulder. "I'm not going to leave you alone," he said. "Because you're my friend and I can't do that. I want to help you. But, just for the moment, I'm not going to drag you to the hospital if you don't want to go."

It didn't feel right to Shiro. It didn't feel like the right thing to do not to pick Keith up and sling him over his shoulder if he had to in order to take him back to the people who could help him. But Keith apparently needed a different kind of help just as much and Shiro wasn't going to deprive him of that. Not in that moment, anyway. To the sight of Keith warily raising his gaze, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

* * *

_BlackLion007 has entered the chatroom._

_BlackLion007: Is anyone here?_

_BlackLion007: I'm so sorry to ask, but this is an emergency._

_BlackLion007: Does anyone by any chance have a car they can drive? Is anyone actually available to use it?_

_BlackLion007: I'm sorry to ask this, but I don't know who else to turn to. It's kind of desperate._

_BlackLion007: Red and I_

_BlackLion007: We have a bit of a situation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! So kind of maybe a little bit of a cliffie but I'll try not to be too cruel. If possible, I might even be able to get out the next chapter early instead of having to wait a whole other week. If I'm really on the ball I might even be able to get another one out today or tomorrow. I'll try!!  
> Hope you enjoyed it and I'll see you next time :D


	7. The Meaning of Real

There wasn't much openness to pace in Lance's kitchen-dining room, and he needed to take a circuitous route to alleviate even a touch of his agitation. Because that was all it was. The barest hint of relief. Lance couldn't stand still and there was nothing he could do about it. His house was a riot of noise as his younger siblings objected to going to bed – even Mika was kicking up a fuss, which was entirely unreasonable for a nearly twelve year old – but Lance hardly noticed. He was preoccupied.

Shifting Harper on his hip and pointedly ignoring her increasing heaviness for she wasn't a short four year old, he took another turn of the kitchen. Harper was actually one of the quietest of his siblings, which was ridiculous given she was the third youngest. Upstairs, he could hear Ditz loose a sharp cry of protest to his mamá's attempts to subdue him. Of course it was Ditz because Ditz was always the one who kicked up the greatest fuss about _everything_. Lance hardly heard that either.

Another turn of the kitchen.

Slapping his phone against his thigh, Lance paused in step to glance down to the screen and click it open. Voltron's lion lit it up for a moment but it showed no incoming messages. That was the worst part of all. Lance knew _nothing._

He'd been talking to Red earlier that evening. Red was simply the one that Lance spoke to on the most frequent basis, the times they spent on Voltron aligning most often. It had been fun, because it was always fun to talk with Red. Unexpectedly so, too, because he was unlike any other friend that Lance had ever had. But he liked it. He liked Red.

And then Red had signed out. Lance had been sure that he was just avoiding the questioning he intended to fire at him. It had been funny in a frustrating kind of way. Red was always so resistant to talking about himself and yet he'd dropped that curiosity about himself as though it was entirely normal. Lance hoped it meant something. He hoped it meant that Red was growing more comfortable with the paladins, or even just with Lance himself.

Except that Red hadn't come back. He'd promised, but he hadn't signed back in. And then BlackLion's message had appeared and that had changed everything.

_It's kind of desperate. Red and I – we have a bit of a situation._

He hadn't expanded on what was wrong. He hadn't explained further when Lance had asked exactly what was going on. Lance could only piece together what little information he'd been afforded. _Emergency_ and _someone who can drive. T_ hat meant they needed help, didn't it? That they maybe needed to be picked up? Dropped somewhere? Lance hadn't even known that Red and BlackLion knew one another offline.

For the briefest of moments Lance had been annoyed at that, but his annoyance vanished almost before it had birthed. It hardly seemed relevant. Not at the moment anyway, because there were more important things to think about. Like the fact that Lance was the only one on Voltron that could offer the requested assistance. His family car was a bit of a beaten mess just like everything his family shared, and was kept only out of necessity for emergencies they might experience themselves, but it would do. Lance would use it. He _had_ to use it, but…

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm so sorry, but I cannot help you. I'm unable to drive myself anywhere at the moment and the one person I could call to offer assistance isn't available at this hour._

_DiffWizard: I'm underage. It's a b*tch but reality. What's wrong?_

_Butterfingers: I'm sorry, BlackLion, but I don't have a car :( Is something wrong? Can we call for some help?_

Lance desperately wanted to reply, but what could he say? He had Harper on his hip and his mamá was upstairs madly struggling to suppress the overloud twins and push them into bed. Janey had likely tucked herself in a nook somewhere that would make it nearly impossible to find her when her own time for bed came and Mika was charging around the house and singing at the top of her lungs because apparently she was in one of her moods that required loosing a surplus of energy before crashing into sleep. Lance didn't even know where Isabel was. At that moment he didn't care.

Another turn around the kitchen, jiggling a rapidly fading Harper on his hip, and he spared the thousandth glance down to his phone. It had been silent for minutes, and Lance didn't know what to make of that. Had BlackLion gotten the help he needed? Were he and Red alright? What was wrong with them both? If Lance asked, would they –?

"What are you doing?"

Pausing in step, Lance glanced towards the doorway into the kitchen-dining room. Isabel watched him with an expression of curiosity upon her face, head cocked to one side. He hadn't heard her arrive but then that was hardly unusual for Isabel. She was always quiet.

Shaking his head, Lance glanced with a frown back down at his phone. Irrational frustration niggled at him. "What are you talking about?"

"That," Isabel said, gesturing towards him indicatively. "I've been standing here for three minutes already and you haven't noticed me. You've been glancing down at your phone every few seconds and it doesn't seem to be calming you down any so I guess whatever's bothering you isn't getting any better." She took a step into the kitchen, folding her arms across her chest. "So what are you doing? What's wrong?"

Jiggling Harper in place and only detachedly noticing that she'd closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder in a doze, Lance shook his head once more. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. Tell me, Lance."

For only sixteen years old, Isabel could be remarkably mature at times. Most of the time, even. Lance had often thought her more mature than himself, and that had been a reality since she'd been born. The two years between them hardly seemed to matter. It was times like these, when she pinned him with her stare and pointedly raised her eyebrows, that Lance was reminded of his mamá and he couldn't help but toe the line.

Sighing, he readjusting his arm holding Harper aloft. Lance had all but lost feeling in his fingers some time ago for her heaviness. "It's just some friends online. Something's happened and I think they might need some help."

Isabel frowned. "Friends online?"

"It's not as sketchy as it sounds. I've been talking to them heaps –"

"That's who you're always messaging every other second?"

Lance nodded a little sheepishly. Red or Butterfingers were those he spoke the most to, but Isabel's collective assumption was accurate enough. "Yeah."

"And there's something wrong with them?"

The dubiousness of Isabel's tone told Lance exactly what she thought of the situation. At another time he might have smirked and teased his sister for her overprotectiveness, but today was different. Today he was worried and dammit, would it kill Red or BlackLion to keep him updated? It had been nearly twenty minutes since BlackLion had last spoken. "They need help – or at least two in particular – and they asked for –"

"They asked for help?" Isabel interrupted him in her quiet yet silencing voice. "Lance, that doesn't exactly sound safe."

"I know how it sounds," Lance muttered, and began pacing once more. The slap of his phone against his thigh didn't relieve his agitation any more than his pacing. "I know that, but I actually trust them, and they haven't demanded, just asked, and I haven't heard anything from them in a while now and I'm worried something's happened. I mean, I'd go in a heartbeat but I don't know where they are, and –"

"Have you asked them?"

Lance paused in step once more, glancing towards his sister. "What?"

Isabel shrugged and they both waited for a beat as the ear splitting screech from upstairs bespoke Ditz being pulled from the bath. He always kicked up a fuss about it, as much getting in as getting out. Lance's mamá always sighed for the fact that he seemed to deteriorate into a one year old once more when it came to bath time.

After another echoing wail from Mika resounded through the house – what was she even singing now? – Isabel continued. "If you asked where they were then you could work out if their request for help was dodgy."

"It's not dodgy," Lance protested.

"Why don't you just ask?"

Jiggling Harper more in an attempt to soothe himself than to comfort her, Lance spared a moment to stare at Isabel before clicking his phone alive. He typed out a quick message before returning to slapping his phone into his thigh once more. Isabel simply watched him expectantly.

A reply buzzed with remarkable promptness and Lance snapped his phone alive in an instant.

_BlackLion007: You know Carla Fey Hospital? We're just around the corner. It's about three blocks from the Estate Mall._

_BlackLion007: I'm sorry, Sharpshooter. If you can't help we'll work something out. I was going to call a taxi but it looks like we'll just be sitting here for a bit._

_BlackLion007: I don't know if Red's really inclined to going anywhere just yet. I don't know if he could even move right now._

Lance heard a groan and only when he finished reading BlackLion's words did he realise it had come from himself. Squeezing his eyes closed for a second, he all but slammed his phone into his forehead in frustration.

"What is it?" Isabel asked.

Lance shook his head. His feet picked up their pacing of their own accord once more. "Something's really wrong. They're not far from Carla Fey Hospital –"

"Carla Fey? That's, like, nearly an hour away, isn't it?"

"- and apparently my friend's not doing too hot." Lance spoke over the top of Isabel, barely hearing her words. Red wasn't inclined to go anywhere? He couldn't even move? Lance didn't know what that meant but it didn't sound good. He wished Red would just pick up his fucking phone and talk to him. He practically lived on Voltron most of the time, even if he didn't feel obliged to contribute to conversation sometimes. "I don't know what to do. I really want to go and help, but –"

"So go and help," Isabel said.

Lance glanced towards her around the phone still pressed to his forehead. "What?"

"Go."

"Izzy, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Lance all but growled. "Because it's an hour away and I'm not leaving Mamá by herself with the twins and the girls is why."

Isabel shrugged. "She's not going to be alone. I'm here. And Papá should be home in a bit. His bus swings by at nine."

Shaking his head, Lance took another turn of the kitchen. "I'm not going to just abandon you –"

"You're not abandoning us, Lance," Isabel interrupted him once more. She'd definitely gotten that skill of seamlessly inserting her words from their mamá. "You're allowed to go and help your friends when they need you more than we do."

That was Isabel's maturity speaking. It was a little awe-inspiring to hear sometimes. She could sound so contemplatively logical about a situation in a way that Lance had never been able to attain. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had gotten the order wrong and that she was actually their eldest.

Lance couldn't see it. In times like these, he couldn't rationalise it. His family was everything to him, and despite caring so ridiculously about a bunch of people he'd met online, most of whom he hadn't even seen in person, he couldn't leave them. Just like he couldn't request that his parents fund his passion for soccer, or request an allowance, or ask if he could work a part-time job at anywhere besides his papá's shop to rake in a little extra cash. He simply couldn't do that. If Isabel was in his situation she probably would have managed it somehow but not Lance.

"I can't just do that," he said, and even to his own ears it sounded something of a desperate whine.

Isabel, however, appeared to be having none of it. Raising an eyebrow again with perfect precision – they'd always had expressive eyebrows in Lance's family – she strode towards him. Without pre-emption, she plucked Harper from his arms, propped her on her own hip, and turned back towards the doorway leading into the narrow hallway beyond. For that moment the house was actually silent, or at least it was until Isabel raised her voice as she rarely did. "Mamá, is it alright is Lance uses the car for a bit?"

There was a pause in which Lance hastened after her from the dining room, muttering in a request to have the limply snoozing Harper back that Isabel promptly ignored. She peered expectantly in the direction of the stairwell where the twins were being blessedly quiet for a moment. Even Mika had temporarily ceased her singing. Lance couldn't even hear her footsteps.

Less than a minute later Lance's mamá appeared at the head of the stairs, poking her head around the corner with a weary quirk of her own eyebrow. She always looked tired. Always. No matter how much coffee she drank in place of rest, Lance's mamá could never seem to shake it.

"The car?" She asked, her tone deliberately hushed as though struggling not to wake a sleeping baby. Which, given Harper was out to the world and the twins were too being suspiciously quiet, she likely was. She ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the already frazzled mess. "Why? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Lance began, but Izzy overrode him. Again.

"His friend needs some help getting picked up from Carla Fey Hospital," she explained, which wasn't expressly true from the information Lance had been provided but for all he knew could be close to accurate. The thought scared him just a little.

His mamá blinked, eyebrows rising further. "From hospital? Lance, is one of your friends unwell?" Lance could only offer a slightly imploring gaze. He didn't know if he was asking for his mamá's help of simply hoping her words weren't prophetic. "Then of course. Of course, take it. Just be careful driving at night and make sure you keep your phone on you."

Then his mamá disappeared up the stairs once more, only the soft, hurried steps of her passing overhead indicating her passage.

"Go," Izzy said, turning and drawing his attention once more. "Why are you so slow?"

"I'm not slow," Lance said, fingers squeezing his phone almost painfully tightly. "I just… I can't just leave you –"

"It's not like you're disappearing forever Lance," Isabel said with an almost-sigh. "Right?"

"Right," Lance agreed, though he couldn't withhold the guilt that flooded through him. He was supposed to stand by his family first and foremost, even when it hurt to drop everyone and everything else to do so. Even when he desperately needed to.

Family first. Except that in this instance…

"Then go," Isabel said once more with a jerk of her chin in the direction the front door. "And hurry up already."

Lance paused for all of a moment longer. Then, already clicking his phone open to send a reply to BlackLion, he turned and hastened to the doorway. "Thanks, Izzy."

* * *

_Sharpshooter18: I'm on my way._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm kind of a little while away, but I'm definitely coming._

_Sharpshooter18: Sorry for the wait._

_BlackLion007: Sharpshooter, you're a lifesaver._

_Sharpshooter18: Too right I am. I'll be there asap._

* * *

The chortle of another car passing illuminated the curb, but only briefly. In the little side street Shiro had managed to urge Keith into, there wasn't much traffic. Strange, considering that the main road was barely half a block away.

Shiro was thankful for that, however. At his side, huddled alongside him on the edge of the gutter, Keith was bowed over himself with forehead resting on his knees. He hadn't moved even to twitch for nearly half and hour. That, Shiro suspected, was not a good thing. It wasn't a good thing at all.

Glancing at him sidelong, Shiro thinned his lips as he spoke into his phone. "I'm terribly sorry. I know this isn't really appropriate but it's something of an emergency."

At the other end of the line, his nurse Maya hummed to herself. "Is it possible for you to come in and sign yourself out for leave? You're more than welcome to it, Shiro, given your circumstances, but we really do have to follow protocol at least a little ways. It's something of an issue that it hasn't been done already given how late it is."

Shiro knew that. He knew and felt guilty enough for pushing his luck. He was supposed to be back in the ward by nine o'clock and it was approaching ten. The nurse was right in that he was permitted leave, however. As a rehab patient, and a mobile one at that, Shiro was afforded more freedom than most. He was technically only still at Carla Fey's rehabilitation centre until he could 'work out what he was doing with himself'. His psychologists were openly reluctant to approve his discharge until then, physical stability notwithstanding.

Shiro couldn't really blame them. He didn't know what he was doing with himself either.

Sighing into his phone, Shiro bowed his own head slightly. This was the second time he'd called already and he felt the weight of guilt for the inconvenience he was creating settle upon him too. His poor nurse. "My friend is somewhat incapable of coming to the hospital right now," he said, and winced slightly at how he knew it sounded. "Is there any way I could possibly do this over the phone?"

"I'm really sorry, Shiro," Maya replied, "but I just can't do that. It sounds silly, I know, but if anything were to happen –"

"I understand," Shiro said. "I wouldn't want to compromise you."

"Is it possible to leave your friend for a moment? Just briefly, while you come back to the hospital?"

Shiro glanced once more towards Keith. He still hadn't moved but at least he was still breathing. Was he still breathing? A moment of scrutiny eased Shiro's immediate concern. Yes. That was a blessing at least. Shiro didn't know exactly what was wrong with him, Keith being adamant that he was 'left alone', but at least he was breathing. At least he was breathing and hadn't ordered Shiro to leave him to his self-imposed isolation.

It was bad. Shiro was teetering on the cusp of simply calling an ambulance to come and pick him up regardless of his desires. Betrayal of trust though it may be, Keith clearly needed help, and Shiro wasn't sure how much he could provide for him. Would Keith run away again if Shiro called for help?

"I don't think I can," Shiro said, shaking his head in regretful frustration. "That… might not be feasible."

"Shiro, if your friend needs help – medical help – he needs to see a doctor."

"I don't know how feasible that is either," Shiro said delicately. He wondered if he spoke too bluntly whether Keith would simply get up and leave. But then, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure if Keith was even listening to him at all. Was he still conscious?

Shiro needed to check if he was conscious. That necessity was abruptly paramount.

"Maya, would it be possible to call you back in a moment," he said quickly, straightening. "I'm sorry, I won't be long."

"Shiro, I don't mean to make things difficult but this really needs to be dealt with," Maya replied, her words tightening.

"I know. I do know, and I'm really sorry to make this difficult for you. I won't be a moment." Then, disregarding his rudeness and shunting aside the natural discomfort that arose from doing so, Shiro abruptly hung up. Slipping his phone into his pocket once more, he shuffled along the curb slightly and leaned towards Keith. "Hey, Keith."

The lack of response was concerning. Even more concerning perhaps than the bruise darkening further still on Keith's cheek. Shiro didn't know what had happened but it was apparent that something was wrong. If the way Keith still cradled his arm to his belly as though pressing his ribs was any indication, the bruising didn't stop at his face.

It was wrong. It was so wrong, and not only the fact that it had happened but that Keith refused to seek help. This wasn't how they were supposed to have met. No, more correctly, it shouldn't have happened at all. It shouldn't have been that something had happened to his friend and Shiro hadn't known about it. He'd thought that he and Keith had begun to trust one another a little bit. They'd shared their real names, and Shiro had been making an effort to talk more directly to Keith, to ask him questions. It had _felt_ different.

But maybe it wasn't really. When Shiro thought about it, really thought, he didn't know much about Keith at all. He knew he was at school and had deduced from what little he'd said that he did well with his grades, but there was little else. He didn't know anything about his family, what things he enjoyed, whether he even liked school. Keith, he realised when he really considered, was very good at deflecting the conversation.

At another tentative word and no further response, Shiro reached his hand towards him and briefly touched Keith's shoulder. That at least elicited a flinch and after a moment Keith shifted to turn his head and crack an eyelid open to peer at Shiro sidelong. He didn't look well at all and hardly seemed able to lift his head.

"Hey," Shiro said, squeezing his shoulder slightly. "You still with me?"

"Are you asking if I'm still conscious?" Keith mumbled in a voice that would have been sarcastic if it had a little more force to it.

Shiro forced a smile onto his lips. "You could say that, yes."

"Then yes, I am." Keith blinked slowly then uttered a faint snort. "You don't have to look so worried. I'm not going to die or anything."

"I hope not," Shiro said with more solemnity than Keith's half-hearted jest warranted. It was a struggle to keep his smile affixed. "I know it's a lot to ask but could you do me a solid and keep your eyes open? Just so I know."

Keith stared at him for a moment through his bangs, eyes blank. It was a little disconcerting just how blank he could make his expression. "Are you always like that?" He asked finally.

"Like what?"

"So polite. And nice. And caring about offending other people."

"You mean being courteous?" Shiro said, his smile growing just a little more genuine. "I try to be."

Keith nodded, turning his head to gaze back down at his knees. He did allow Shiro the benefit of keeping his eyes open, however. "You're one of those innately good people then, huh?" He said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "I kind of guessed that from Voltron."

"I don't think anyone's just innately good. I think it takes work for everyone."

"Polite and philosophical," Keith replied. "Everyone must really love you."

Shiro opened his mouth to respond but found he didn't know what to say. The words could have been construed as sarcastic once except that from Keith they didn't seem like it. They sounded entirely sincere.

"I try," Shiro finally said. "Sometimes not quite so successfully, though."

"Mm," Keith hummed. He didn't seem capable of speaking more.

Shiro was just contemplating calling Maya back, even though he didn't know what else he could possibly say to her, when another car turned into the street. Shiro glanced up instinctively and was on his feet in an instant when he saw it draw to a stop a house's distance away. He didn't even need to wait to see who it was; somehow he simply knew and an upwelling of relief flooded through him.

"Just wait here a second," he said. Keith didn't reply as, backing away for a few steps, Shiro turned and hastened towards the car.

It was an old model that had definitely seen better days. One of the side mirrors was held on by duct tape and the back right window was a quarter open to allow the coolness of the October weather as though it couldn't close. But it was _a_ car, and for that Shiro didn't think he'd seen a more incredible vehicle in his life. He was even more grateful to see a tall, lanky figure all but flung himself from the driver's side and started towards him with barely a moment slowed to slam the door behind him.

By the light of the street lamp, Shiro got his first real look at Sharpshooter. He was a young man, possibly eighteen or nineteen, dark haired and thin with the bounciness to his step of incessant energy. Or maybe that was simply his worry, apparent in the tightness of his expression as he drew to a stop before Shiro.

"You're Sharpshooter," Shiro said more than asked as he stopped before him. "Thank you so much for getting back to me as you did. I didn't know who else to contact."

"No, I –" The kid, for he really was little more than a teenager, shook his head. He spared a glance over Shiro's shoulder. "It's no trouble. Seriously. You're BlackLion, then?"

Any ridiculousness that might have accompanied the use of their Voltron names was lost in the seriousness of the situation. Sharpshooter, who was incessantly loud and good-natured even when complaining online, couldn't have seemed further from happy and light-hearted. His leg was jiggling as he stood in stillness as though twitching in his agitation.

Shiro nodded. "Yeah. Or Shiro, actually."

"Shiro," Sharpshooter echoed, gaze meeting Shiro's intently. He seemed to really study Shiro for the first time before, after a moment of pause, he held out his hand. "I'm Lance."

The dilemma arose when Sharpshooter – when _Lance_ reached to clasp his hand. His right hand, which made shaking with Shiro's left somewhat awkward. There was a pause in which Lance glanced towards the empty sleeve of Shiro's right arm. An extended pause in which he only stared blankly. Then, without comment, he abruptly switched hands and grasped Shiro's with his own left. "Nice to officially meet you," he said, and that was the end of it.

Shiro didn't know what he'd been expecting. Maybe something more. Maybe something worse, some flicker of horror or even unease at the evidence of Shiro's amputation. He found that, even in the midst of his worry, he was relieved by how Lance had taken it. Very relieved. He couldn't have hoped it had gone otherwise, because of all things Lance didn't appear to care.

The situation was wrong. All of it was wrong, from how Shiro had stumbled upon Red to how he was meeting Sharpshooter in person. But they didn't have the time or the capability to change it. There were more important matters at hand.

Lance clearly felt so too. Peering over Shiro's shoulder, he tipped his head in a nod towards Keith. "That's Red."

Shiro nodded, following his gaze to where Keith still sat folded upon himself, unmoved from how he'd been moments before. "That's Keith."

"Keith," Lance echoed in much the same tone he'd voiced Shiro's name. The rising wonder faded beneath his concern almost as soon as it arose, however, a frown wrinkling his brow. "What happened to him? Is he alright?"

"I'm not sure," Shiro said. "He won't tell me."

"But?"

"But…" Shiro turned back to Lance, unconsciously lowering his voice. "I think it might have been a fight of some sorts. I don't know what happened but maybe his friend was beaten up? I was at Emergency when the ambulance pulled in and saw him go in with another kid on a gurney. I saw him come running out as though hellhounds were nipping his heels barely minutes later, too."

Lance shifted his attention back to Shiro, alarm widening his eyes. "Wait, what? You were at – wait, so what happened? Why were you at the ER? Why were you -? I'm so confused, are you -?"

"It's not important," Shiro said, because it really wasn't. He hadn't admitted to his friends exactly where he was staying, simply that he'd been in a place that would help him recover from his injury. "The problem is that I saw it happen, managed to follow Keith because it wasn't particularly hard after he all but collapsed a few blocks from Carla Fey, and we've been here since."

"Why isn't he at the hospital?" Lance said, voice rising slightly in his growing alarm. His gaze flicked back and forth between Shiro and Keith over his shoulder. "Is he beaten up too? Why doesn't he go -?"

"He doesn't want to," Shiro interrupted him, lowering his voice as he spared a glance for Keith over his shoulder once more. He was unsure if any mention of hospital might send Keith into flight once more. He didn't appear to have heard them, however, or perhaps he simply lacked the energy to attempt to move. Shiro wouldn't have ben surprised; he looked barely conscious. "He said he doesn't want to."

"Well, he's an idiot, then," Lance said, and before Shiro could say another word he started around him with a long-legged stride that quickly turned into a jog. He'd dropped onto his haunches in front of Keith by the time Shiro, following after him, drew alongside them. "Hey, Red? Red. Hey, Red, can you hear me?"

Shiro didn't think that talking to Keith would do all that much good, nor that physically poking Keith on the crown of his bowed head as Lance was doing was the best way to go about getting his attention, but he didn't interrupt. Biding his time because really, Shiro had no better idea than Lance did about how to handle the situation, he silently watched.

"Could you stop," Keith finally mumbled into his knees.

"No," Lance said, giving him another series of pokes. "Not until you stop ignoring me."

"Go away. 'M tired."

"Aren't you going to introduce yourself? Or am I just going to call you Red for the rest of our acquaintance?"

"Call me whatever you like, I don't care. Just please stop."

Lance glanced up at Shiro, and for all of his blasé attitude there was very definite mounting concern in the thinness of his lips and lowered eyebrows. Shiro accepted the silent request and dropped down to a crouch at Keith's side alongside him. "Keith?" He said quietly, raising his hand to rest on Keith's shoulder once more. Keith didn't flinch this time, or at least not noticeably. "We've got to get you up and take you somewhere. You can't just sit here all night."

"Try me," Keith murmured.

"Don't be a dick about this," Lance said, though the insult was lost in the concern in his tone. "Come on, man, we'll carry you if we have to. I'm sure between us me and Shiro we could manage. You're not exactly Goliath."

Keith didn't respond and Lance glanced towards Shiro once more. Feeling his own lips thin, holding back on the words that longed to spill forth and centred primarily around hospital and getting professional help, Shiro twisted to sit on the curb beside Keith once more. "Listen, Keith," he said quietly. "If nothing else, we need to go somewhere. Lance shouldn't be out here in the middle of the night either."

He spoke in an approach that had always worked on Shiro himself and he had a hope might work to persuade Keith too – that was, to turn his efforts from helping himself to benefitting someone else. Whether for that reason or otherwise, Keith actually managed to lift his head and glance blearily at Shiro. That definitely wasn't good. He looked worse than he had barely minutes before.

"Lance?" He asked, weariness more than curiosity touching in his question.

"That's me," Lance said, and Shiro was surprised at how easily he seemed to adopt a smile. Keith glanced his way waveringly. "Nice of you to actually notice there's another stranger sitting right in front of you, even if – holy shit, man, that looks… that looks bad."

Lance's words abruptly grew horrified as Keith turned his attention directly towards him. Shiro couldn't blame him. The bruise was coming up deeply and spanned his entire cheekbone. Keith was lucky it had missed his eye.

""S not as bad as it looks," Keith mumbled before closing his eyes and dropping his chin again.

"Hey." Shiro immediately squeezed his shoulder once more, shaking him slightly. "Keith? Hey, what did I say, yeah? Keep your eyes open for me."

"This is bad," Lance said, markedly more subdued than before. "He looks like he's going to pass out. Keith, you really need to get to the hospital or something."

"No," Keith said, shaking his forehead into his knees as his head lowered further. "No hospital. I don't need –"

"Yeah, you kind of do," Lance overrode him, his voice rising with a slight hitch. He sounded almost annoyed. "You really kind of do, because no offence but you look like shit."

They weren't the words that Shiro would have used but he couldn't deny that they were the truth. Keith looked far too pale beneath the bruising. He only shook his head, however, as stubborn as a mule. "No. No hospital."

"Why not?" Lance asked. Definitely annoyed this time.

"Fuck off. I don't want to go."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't want to."

Lance snorted through a scowl. "Oh yeah, that's a really good reason. Give me a better one or I'm just going to drag you there. It's only around the corner, so –"

He was forced to cut himself short as Keith lurched to his feet. Shiro sprung to his own alongside him, making an immediate grab for him as Keith took a wobbling step in the opposite direction of Lance's car. He only just caught him before Keith actually started away; it was something of a miracle that he was able to stay on his feet at all.

Keith was scowling himself now, though. At Lance, or Shiro, or simply the idea of hospital. Shiro didn't know what his problem was with it but it was clearly a sore spot. "No," he said curtly, eyes blinking rapidly as though struggling to stay open. "Fuck. Off. I said I don't want to."

"Why not?" Lance said, edging forwards slightly. He looked like a shepherd edging towards a flighty sheep. "It's obviously the place you need to be, so why -?"

"It's okay," Shiro said, quickly overriding him. He focused his attention solely on Keith as he made to lurch away from him in a step that was almost the beginning of a run. Shiro couldn't allow that. He'd likely manage a few steps out of sheer stubbornness but would just as likely fall on his face after that. "You don't have to if you don't want to. Look, we just want to help and you need to go _some_ where, alright?" A pause, then, "Keith?"

Whether for his hand on his arm or otherwise, Keith stopped his wobbling inclination to retreat and blinked at Shiro. Disconcerting blankness settled upon his previously tight expression. "Can you please just leave me alone?"

Shiro shook his head. "No. We've been through this, remember."

"Not really."

"Then I'll just say it again. You're my friend. I'm not leaving you when you're hurt."

"I'm fine –"

"No you're not," Shiro said. "You're not." Then, glancing towards Lance who watched with wide eyes and frown lowered, he tipped his head to the car waiting behind them, headlights still blinking. "Lance has brought his car. Can we at least take you home or something?"

Keith shook his head, though it seemed more an attempt to clear it than in denial. "No."

Shiro didn't let the shortness of his reply deter him. "Then maybe if your parents could –"

"No," Keith said once more.

"Could we even call them? Just to let them know you're okay? Do they have a home phone or –?"

"No."

"You're not giving us much to work with here," Lance said lowly. "Come on, man."

"I didn't ask for help," Keith said, dropping his gaze to his feet. To Shiro's eyes it looked to be as much to keep an eye on his balance as in defiance. "Why can't people just leave me alone?"

"Shiro said it," Lance said, planting his hands on his hips. "'Cause we're friends. Now come on, don't be a dick about this. Can you at least tell me where you live? Or even a phone number? Your family would have to be worried about you, right?"

"I very much doubt that," Keith said. His voice had grown slightly less defiant and Shiro wasn't altogether sure that was such a good thing. Neither was the slight inching stagger he stepped away from Shiro. "The Tulson's have never really worried all that much, even if they pretend to."

Then nothing.

Shiro glanced towards Lance, meeting his gaze frown for frown. There was a lot in those simple words, and though Shiro didn't want to make assumption, it sounded like… it probably meant that…

"So no hospital," Lance said quietly, turning towards Keith. Though his hands still rested on his hips, it appeared more as though he'd forgotten they were there than in any real indignation. "And we're not taking you home so… Keith, you need to be looked at by someone. I mean –"

He cut himself off as Keith abruptly sunk to the ground once more, arm curling back around his belly. Shiro followed him down, dropping his hand from Keith's shoulder to loop around his back instead. He shared another glance with Lance. "We definitely need to get him somewhere."

"Hospital would be –"

"Maybe not such a good idea if he's going to protest it so much," Shiro said, though the very notion of doing otherwise tightened his gut nauseously. "Somewhere else. Somewhere that someone could help, which I… I can't really…"

Trailing off, Shiro drew his gaze to Keith. Where exactly could he take him? Shiro hadn't been to his own apartment in months, let alone that of his parents, and his knowledge of first aid was barely the basics that every soldier knew. The rehab centre was part of Carla Fey Hospital, so Shiro was drawing blanks.

"Lance," he asked, biting back on his fierce regret for having to ask someone who was practically a stranger for help. Or – no, they weren't strangers, but even so... "You don't know anyone who could help, do you? Anyone who could offer more than rudimentary first aid, or a place where we could –"

"My place," Lance cut in promptly. There was a hint of urgency to his words and he didn't seem able to draw his downturned gaze from Keith as he stood before him. "My mamá can – I mean, if she had to she could…" He trailed off, pursing his lips. When he continued it seemed more to himself than Shiro or Keith. "He could sleep in my bed, but with everyone else overflowing from everywhere I don't know how great an idea that would be. Mamá and Papá wouldn't care, but the girls…"

Another pause, a further pursing of his lips, and Lance started with a snapped his fingers. "Hunk."

Shiro blinked up at him, dragging his gaze from Keith. He'd closed his eyes again and didn't look nearly as conscious as he had been moments before. "I'm sorry?"

"We could take him to Hunk's," Lance said. Then, with another series of finger snaps, he corrected himself. "I mean Butterfingers. If he's okay with it, that is, which I'm sure he will be. He's got a room his gran stays in when she sleeps the night at his place."

"Would he really be alright with that?" Shiro asked. He didn't feel comfortable with loading the responsibility onto someone else, but he didn't have much of a choice.

"We'll find out," Lance said, pulling a battered phone from the back pocket of his jeans. In an instant he was pressing it to his ear and Shiro watched as, shifting his frowning attention back to Keith, Lance spoke almost immediately. "Hey, Hunk? Yeah, yeah I know. I didn't – Yeah, that's where I am. You read the chat?"

A pause and then Lance was speaking at a rapid-fire rate. "Right, so we have a bit of a problem. Red needs some place to crash that isn't a hospital because – yeah, a hospital, 'cause he's beaten up and looks like crap and he's kind of – yeah, he looks like he's just about passed out." Pause. "No, he won't go. Shiro and me – I mean BlackLion – we tried. No, he's not having it. Pretty beat up, yeah. Do you think you could -?"

Lance was silent for another extended pause, and in that silence of staring and waiting Shiro could only wonder. He had his arm around Red's shoulders, holding him up so he didn't fall back and slam his head on the sidewalk. Sharpshooter was standing right in front of him and talking on the phone to Butterfingers, and they were potentially going to meet him. In spite of it all, in spite of the severity of the situation, Shiro was grateful for that.

Voltron had all but saved his sanity over the past months, but Shiro hadn't realised how much he'd wanted to simply meet the people who had become so important to him until it was actually happening. His arm tightened unconsciously around Keith's shoulder. _Even with this and how utterly, confusingly stupid it is, I'm grateful for that at least._

"Yeah," Lance said, breaking his silence with a nod. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You said you sort of knew how so, I thought – Yeah, probably. Would you mind?" A heartbeat of silence and Lance was smiling a little tightly. "Thanks, buddy," he murmured, then he was lowering his phone.

"Alright," he said, and though he turned his attention towards Shiro it seemed something of a struggle to draw his gaze from Keith. "So Hunk – Butterfingers, I mean, he said we can go to his place. He starts work at two, but if we can get there before then he said he could try and patch Red up a little bit. I mean Keith."

Like a lodestone, Lance's eyes drew towards Keith once more. He seemed almost afraid to blink away from him.

Shiro adjusted his hold slightly. "Hunk can patch him up?" He asked.

Lance nodded. "Yeah, he knows that kind of thing. Or he taught himself that stuff or something. His mom is… well, she's kind of been through the wars. He made sure he knew that kind of stuff after it… happened."

Lance's obtuseness didn't really make sense to Shiro, but he let is slide. There were more important matters to deal with. "And he's okay with this."

The grim smile Lance had worn flashed in Shiro's direction once more. "He said he'd be upset if we thought to take him anywhere else – unless it was the hospital, he said. Which," once more drawing his attention back towards Keith, Lance frowned and muttered, "I would like to ask some questions about. I mean, I knew Red was a little weird just like the rest of us, but that's not right. Not when he's hurt like this."

Shiro nodded. It was a testament to Keith's falling into oblivion that he didn't respond. "You and me both," he said. Then, firming his hold and testing his balance that was still at times dubious, Shiro slung Keith's arm around his neck and hauled them both to their feet. Lance sprung to his aid in an instant.

"Thanks," Shiro said. "And not just for that. Thanks for coming, Lance."

"Don't mention it," Lance said, expression sombre once more. "I mean it. Same as Hunk, I'd have been kind of pissed if you hadn't asked me for help."

"Well, thank you," Shiro said, marvelling at the sincerity of Lance's words. Friends… he'd almost forgotten what it was like to rely on people like that. "I'm coming with you, if that's alright."

"Yeah, I've got space," Lance said as they started towards the car. It was slow work; Keith really did seem to have all but passed out, which was only even concerning. "We're probably going to have to squish Keith into the back, though."

"I'll sit with him," Shiro said. "But, um… Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is bad timing, but could we stop by the hospital?" Shiro couldn't bring himself to look at Lance as he spoke, focusing on the car before them. "I've got to check myself out for the night."

Lance didn't reply for a long moment, and it was only when they drew alongside the car that he spoke in barely audible words. "Yeah, sure. No problems, Shiro."

A question lay was in Lance's tone, but it remained unvoiced. Shiro was grateful for that; he didn't feel inclined to explain his situation right then and there. There were more pressing matters to consider. In less than half an hour, he was climbing into the back of Lance's car for the second time, paperwork complete and handed to a visibly concerned Maya, and they were starting for Butterfingers' house.

Shiro was left to marvel at how much had changed in half a night.

* * *

_DiffWitch: I mean, it's cool and everything, but I don't really understand where the name comes from._

_DiffWitch: Sounds cool, but yeah._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you._

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, I quite like it, although perhaps more for the connotations and the memories than the actual word. Altea was the name of the farm I grew up on._

_DiffWitch: You grew up on a farm?_

_DiffWitch: Wouldn't have picked it._

_PrincessOfAltea: Maybe not it's quite the type of farm the word itself insinuates. Altea is more of a country estate. A manor._

_DiffWitch: Ah. That seems a little more appropriate._

_DiffWitch: No offense intended, but you seem kind of… upstanding?_

_PrincessOfAltea: No offence taken._

_DiffWitch: So._

_DiffWitch: What are you doing right now?_

_PrincessOfAltea: DiffWitch, you don't have to keep asking me that. I've done nothing of worth in the past three hours, just as you appear to have abandoned pursuing of particular interest. You don't need to try to make strained conversation with me._

_DiffWitch: I guess you're right._

_DiffWitch: Sorry._

_DiffWitch: I really am just trying to make conversation._

_PrincessOfAltea: You're worried._

_DiffWitch: Aren't you?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Of course. I'm merely offering you an explanation for why you feel as you do. There's nothing wrong with that. We're both worried._

_DiffWitch: I just want to know what's happening._

_DiffWitch: I feel so out of the loop._

_DiffWitch: Is something wrong?_

_DiffWitch: Has something happened to BlackLion and Red?_

_DiffWitch: He said emergency, didn't he? What kind of emergency?_

_DiffWitch: What if they're really in trouble._

_PrincessOfAltea: DiffWitch, calm down. We can't do anything by growing frantic._

_DiffWitch: Wow, thank you for that insight._

_DiffWitch: I feel so much calmer now._

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm sorry?_

_DiffWitch: No, I'm sorry._

_DiffWitch: That was uncalled for._

_DiffWitch: I'm just… worried._

_DiffWitch: I wish I had some other way to contact everyone but I only have Butterfingers' number and he hasn't said anything to me since I sent him a message an hour ago._

_PrincessOfAltea: No private messages for you either?_

_DiffWitch: None._

_Butterfingers has entered the chatroom._

_Butterfingers: I'm sorry._

_Butterfingers: Really sorry guys. We were just working things out._

_PrincessOfAltea: We?_

_DiffWitch: Are you with Red and BlackLion, Butterfingers?_

_Butterfingers: Yeah. And Lance._

_Butterfingers: Sorry, I meant Sharpshooter._

_Butterfingers: Yeah, we're altogether._

_DiffWitch: All of you?_

_DiffWitch: How do you even know each other?_

_DiffWitch: No. Later. What happened?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, please tell us. Is something wrong?_

_Butterfingers: It's alright._

_Butterfingers: It's alright now._

_Butterfingers: Red just got into a bit of a fix but he refused to go to hospital. Shiro stumbled upon him and made sure he got to some help that he'd actually accept. Although I don't know how much acceptance there is in the matter. He's pretty out of it._

_Butterfingers: But Sharpshooter came to the rescue, went and picked them up, and he brought them here. Red's sleeping and we're just making sure he's okay._

_DiffWitch: F*cking hell, what?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Hospital? He's injured?_

_PrincessOfAltea: God, what happened? Did something happen? Was he in an accident?_

_DiffWitch: What the hell is going on?!_

_Butterfingers: It's fine. Guys, it's fine._

_Butterfingers: He's stable enough now, and I think he's more asleep than unconscious._

_DiffWitch: Stable NOW?!_

_DiffWitch: What the f*ck was he before?!_

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh god._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh god, what happened?_

_Butterfingers: Guys, it's okay._

_Butterfingers: I can't really explain it now because I've got to run, but it's fine now. It's fine._

_Butterfingers: Rest assured, everything is all fine._

_Butterfingers: :)_

_DiffWitch: Don't you dare f*cking smiley at me._

_DiffWitch: And don't just run off._

_DiffWitch: Tell me what happened._

_PrincessOfAltea: Butterfingers, please. We're both so worried._

_Butterfingers: I_

_Butterfingers: I've got to go to work. I'm really sorry, guys._

_Butterfingers: But I'll ask Shiro to jump onto Voltron to explain it further._

_DiffWitch: Shiro?_

_Butterfingers: My bad. BlackLion._

_DiffWitch: Wait._

_PrincessOfAltea: Can you just answer one more thing?_

_Butterfingers: He'll be here in a second._

_Butterfingers has left the chatroom._

* * *

Lowering his phone as he signed out and ignoring the immediate buzzing it erupted with as messages chased his leave, Hunk raised his gaze to where Shiro stood at his side. _Or BlackLion,_ he though to himself. _It's so weird seeing him in real life. I almost can't think of him as being the same person. Though I guess… he kind of looks like how I'd imagine._

He did. Shiro truly did. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he carried the physique of one Hunk could clearly perceive as being a soldier. Physically dependable, he seemed to emanate a feeling of supportiveness. Of protectiveness, even. It didn't matter that he was missing an arm. It didn't matter that a scar split his face across the bridge of his nose and a crop of whiteness streaked his fringe as though it had been bleached of any colouration right down to the roots. Even in stillness, Shiro looked like he knew how to handle himself.

Why he didn't consider re-enlisting the army as the soldier he had been was something that Hunk couldn't understand, even if it would take some effort to work around his handicap. Or enlisting as an officer, as seemed even more appropriate. As soon as he'd entered Hunk's house, even respectful as he was for Hunk taking over the situation as best he could, Shiro's supervision and direction of the situation was apparent. He couldn't have been much more than six or seven years older than Hunk himself, but he was composed. Or perhaps he _had_ composed himself. Hunk was more than happy to follow any direction he might point him towards.

"I just talked to DiffWitch and the Princess," Hunk said, his voice hushed. "I let them know what happened just to keep them updated. They've been in the chatroom pretty much all night."

Shiro nodded but didn't draw his gaze away from the room they stood alongside. Hunk couldn't blame him and found his own attention drawn into the little guest room. Keith – or Red – lay asleep and utterly limp beneath the blankets, an unmoving shape that hardly even seemed to be breathing. He was, Hunk knew, because he'd checked countless times. He'd checked when Shiro and Lance had first brought Keith through the door, a dead weight between them. He'd checked again when they managed to disentangle him of his jacket and shirt so he could get a look at him, when Hunk had fixed him up as best he could strapping sprains and bandaging ribs over patches that covered the wounds on his belly. Hunk had checked when he'd finally settled him into the bed, too.

That had been nearly an hour ago. An hour and Hunk was still a little shaken by everything – by what he'd seen of Keith in his mess of bruises and scrapes and sprains, by meeting not one but another _two_ members of Voltron, at the fact that he had them _in his house_. Hunk had relied more on instinct than thought to jump to the response when Lance knocked on his front door. He didn't like seeing his friends injured. Simply the sight of such wounds made him sick to his stomach.

Lance himself sat in the room in the only chair available. He hadn't moved for the past half an hour, as though worried that in doing so he might miss something integral. The moment Keith woke up, perhaps, or something less positive that Hunk didn't really want to think about. He was worried about Keith's head injury, and not just the one that had left a fist-sized bruise on Keith's cheek. The bump to the back of his head didn't look healthy either.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Hunk whispered, turning back to Shiro. "I mean, not taking him to hospital when he's so beaten up?"

Shiro shook his head, and the way he tucked his arm across his chest was reminiscent of folded arms. "No. No, I don't think it's a good idea. I think it's dangerous even not to take him to hospital."

"But he kicked up a fuss," Hunk said.

"You could say that. I'm pretty sure he would have made certain he got away from me if I'd insisted."

"Why? What's wrong with hospitals?"

Shiro slowly shook his head once more. "I suppose we all have our demons. I can't question Keith's." His sigh suggested he wasn't satisfied with his own words, however. "But, if anything does happen to exacerbate the situation, we'll take him to hospital. I swear it, Hunk."

Hunk attempted a smile that likely fell just a little short. "I trust you."

"Strange," Shiro murmured, gaze still turned into the room. "That you would after barely knowing me."

"I know you, Shiro. I do know you."

Shiro nodded slowly. "I know. It feels like that to me too, actually." Then, with a glance towards Hunk, he gestured with a tilt of his head down the hallway and away from the guest room. Hunk spared a final glance for Keith and Lance before following after him towards the living room.

Shiro didn't take a seat on the couch as Hunk might have expected. Instead, he simply planted himself against the wall and turned back towards Hunk, arm crossing his chest in what would have been a fold had he two of them. Strangely enough it didn't appear strange in the slightest. "I have to thank you for all of your help. You really saved us, Hunk."

Feeling his face flush, Hunk raised a hand to the back of his head in an awkward scratch. "Hey, don't get all sincere on me."

"I'm serious," Shiro said, though through the gloom broken only by the standing lamp in the corner of the room Hunk could perceive his small smile. "We would have been at a loss if not for you."

"I still can't believe this happened. It seems kind of impossible that you just happened to stumble across him."

"I know. Impossible."

"But lucky."

"Very lucky." Shiro shook his head, gaze dropping briefly to the floor. "I don't like to think what would happen if I hadn't managed to catch up with him."

Hunk didn't want to think about that either so, in the way he'd taught himself out of necessity, he thrust the pessimism aside smiled more fully. "But you did, and that's all that matters. And we patched him up, so he should be fine. Shouldn't he?"

Shiro glanced towards him, small smile drawing across his lips once more. "Yes. He should be. Hopefully. And that's thanks to you too. You and your first aid."

Shrugging, Hunk scratched awkwardly at the back of his head once more. "Yeah, well, it's good that it came in handy."

"Where did you learn that?"

"The first time my mom, ah… when she had her first stroke, she kind of collapsed and hurt herself." For a moment Hunk struggled to look at Shiro – it had always hurt to talk directly of what had happened to his mom – but when he managed it was to have his discomfort eased. Shiro had a way about him that Hunk had realised even in just the short time of actually meeting him. It was that supportiveness. That dependability. It made it easier to simply speak. "I went and did a course just so that I could know what to do if it ever happened again."

"That's incredible of you, Hunk," Shiro said, and Hunk felt himself blush once more. "I mean it. It takes a lot to make that extra effort."

"She might have needed me," Hunk said. "It was the only thing I could do."

"It's still incredible."

Hunk glanced unconsciously towards the hallway in the direction of his mom's room. He hoped they hadn't woken her with their late-night antics, though when he considered it Hunk knew that his mom wouldn't mind. She'd always been a compassionate person.

"We'll look after her," Shiro said, speaking into Hunk's thoughts. "While you're at work, we'll keep an eye on everything."

Hunk knew his mom didn't need the extra eye; she'd been forced to spend the night alone until his gran got there for so long it was commonplace. But he appreciated Shiro's words nonetheless. "Thanks."

"You hardly need to thank us. You're the one doing us the favour of lending your spare room."

Hunk smiled. "You'd think that I'd be worried about leaving a bunch of people I've only just met in my house without me here, but I'm not." He paused, then, "Well, except for Lance. We've known each other for a while."

"Small world," Shiro murmured as he had almost every time the subject of Hunk and Lance's – or Hunk and Pidge's – meeting arose. "What are the odds?"

"I guess our chatroom is restricted to New York City, so it's not as impossible as it could have been if it was the whole world."

"New York City has more than eight million people in it."

"Point. It really is a small world."

"That it is."

There was a beat of silence in which Hunk knew he should leave to head to work, but he found himself glancing in the direction of the guest room once more. "I hope he'll be okay," he muttered to himself.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Shiro said. "Lance the most closely, I'd say."

"Yeah." Hunk turned back to Shiro. "Weird, that."

"What's weird?"

Hunk shrugged. "Just that I knew they talked to each other a lot – probably more than anyone else does – but…"

"I know. I said as much to Red and he said it was simply that they happened to frequently be on Voltron at the same time."

"You mean all the time?"

Shiro cracked another smile. It seemed just a little weary. "Yes. That."

Hunk nodded, glancing back towards the hallway. "Lance seems really… I mean, he's really…"

"Maybe they're closer than we realised?" Shiro suggested.

"Maybe," Hunk conceded, though he couldn't imagine it. From what little he'd seen of him, Red – or Keith, more correctly – didn't seem the type to get close to people. Hunk had spoke to Lance about that on several occasions, and mostly because Lance was disgruntled for the fact. Hunk wasn't the only one who realised that Keith was very good at deflecting the conversation from himself.

A buzzing from his phone, a different kind of buzzing to the sporadic yet incessant beeps from DiffWitch and the Princess on Voltron, drew Hunk's attention to his pocket. He switched off the alarm before turning back to Shiro. "I've got to go to work."

"Go," Shiro said immediately. "Sorry to keep you."

"It's not your – don't be sorry," Hunk said. "It's about an hour away and my shift's for eight hours, so…"

"We'll see you later, Hunk. Don't worry, I'll make sure no one blows up the house."

Hunk grinned, the sobriety of the mood lightening just slightly. Shiro seemed like a straight-laced kind of guy, so it was nice to hear him joke a little. "Thanks, That would be appreciated. Oh yeah, and you should probably log onto Voltron. I might have told DiffWitch and the Princess that you'd fill them in."

Shiro nodded without complaint. "I will."

Swinging by his room, Hunk grabbed his bag of apron and hat before heading towards the front door. He glanced once more into the guest room as he passed, then couldn't help himself and had to poke his head into his mom's room, too. It was dark within, and he could barely make out the shape of her in her bed.

With a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the living room, catching sight of Shiro heading in the direction of the guest room with phone already in hand, he turned back to his mom. He didn't even know if she was awake but he spoke anyway. "Hey, Mom. Sorry if we woke you. I just wanted to let you know that I've got a few friends staying in the house so don't freak out. They just needed a bed for the night but they're good guys. And Shiro's promised he won't let anything drastic happen."

Hunk paused and, at the ring of his own words and the unspoken meaning behind them, he felt himself smile once more. A small, incredulous kind of smile, for who'd have thought? Resting his head on the doorframe, he briefly closed his eyes. "I've got friends over, Mom. How long has it been, huh? And they're really… they're really great."

So long. It had been so long since Hunk had seen any of his old school friends, since he'd gone out with anyone from work, let alone had anyone over. His mom had spoken of it when she could still speak, expressing her regret for that fact. That and her guilt for causing Hunk grief in the first place, that she'd become such a burden.

Grief? A burden? Hunk had never seen it as such. He couldn't, because his mom was the most important person to him in the world. Even if she was different now, even if she couldn't walk to talk or take care of herself, she was still precious to him. Hunk would give up any of his friends for that, would give up his everything. He had done just that, and though he regretted losing his friends he didn't regret acting as he had.

But Voltron and the paladins as they called themselves – they were different. For whatever reason, Hunk hadn't needed to see them to know their friendship was strong. He hadn't needed to put his care for his mom or his work on the line to maintain that friendship. Even before he'd met them in person – and act which Hunk would admit was utterly fantastic – he'd somehow known they were different. They were important. They were _real._

"They're really great, Mom," Hunk said once more, and he felt like he spoke more to himself than to his mom. He didn't even know if she could hear him. "They're… I don't know, but for some reason they feel like they're special."

His mom didn't reply. Of course she didn't because she never did anymore. In the darkness of the room, however, Hunk could pretend that it was simply because she was asleep, and he backed out silently, tugging the door closed behind him. As he left for the front door, however, the sound of Lance or perhaps Shiro murmuring quietly in the guest room followed after him. For once, as Hunk maintained his smile, it didn't feel all that feigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A second chapter in 12 hours! What a triumph!  
> I hope you enjoyed it and that it's slightly more satisfying than the end of the previous chapter. I just know how much I die for the wait so... yay? Also, we'll be tiptoeing in a somewhat Klance-ward direction next chapter so I guess that's something to look forward to. Slowly, though. Very. Slowly.  
> Anyway, thank you for reading again - and to all of my wonderful, fantastically dedicated commenters. You're all so lovely to take a moment to leave a word and I practically squeal at every single one. Love you all and I'll see you next time!


	8. Wake Up Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Phew! Well, this is a helluva chapter. Mammoth length, at that. I hope you enjoy, and I sincerely apologise for the lack of Pidge and Allura. Don't worry, their time will come. Especially Pidge; she/he is practically narrating the entire next chapter, so I guess there's that to look forward to :)

He hurt all over when he finally woke. Keith catalogued every ache, ever pain, every bruise that he could feel as though he actually saw it rather than simply knowing it was there. He felt the sharp twist in his lower chest that suggested something was wrong with his ribs, and even before he opened his eyes he was dropping fingers to his chest and palpating the ache.

 _Not broken,_ he thought as the twinge elicited whined in only brief protest. _I don't think it's broken, so that's good._

Then reality settled upon him. Keith was lying down in… a bed? Blankets were heaped on top of him, comfortably warm, and beneath his fingers he could feel that he wasn't wearing a shirt anymore. Since when did Keith not sleep in a shirt? Bandages hardly made up for it –

Bandages. That was unexpected.

Slowly, with a struggle that sparked the beginnings of a headache, Keith blinked his eyes open to the slogging moans of recollection. He absorbed the sight of the ceiling above as memory of the fight returned. He turned his head towards a simple yet unfamiliar lampshade on the nightstand as he recalled calling for an ambulance, the paramedic asking his name. Blinking in flutters, he remembered the nurse in the ER, the questions asked, her attempts to have him, "Take a seat so we can look at you".

Hospitals. Keith had never liked hospitals. He hated them, even, because he wouldn't let himself fear them. Keith would be damned if he stayed in one when he didn't have to.

And then he remembered beyond that. His memory strained and struggled with a mish-mash of recollections, before, in the midst of his blinking and his attempts to prop himself onto an elbow, Keith froze. Shiro. He'd met Shiro, and… what was his name? He had a vague memory of someone else, and importance attached itself to that memory, but he couldn't quite remember…

His head hurt. That was most likely the primary problem.

The room he found himself in was dark, but though shadows muffled every aspect, Keith knew it was unfamiliar. That in itself wasn't particularly astounding; Keith had been in more unfamiliar rooms in the extent of his life than he could count. One more wasn't anything to comment upon.

Except that unlike usual, this time as Keith dragged his gaze around the walls, to the window hidden behind pale blinds and barely admitting a sliver of wan light, memory of exactly _where_ he was didn't come flooding back. That was the concerning part. Usually it took just a little while, just a moment or two for it to dawn upon him, but this time…

It was almost as concerning as the unfamiliar figure sprawled like a ragdoll in the single chair in the room.

Keith stared at him for a long moment, propped as he was on his elbows and frozen into stillness. He didn't recognise the boy who couldn't have been much older than he if he was older at all. He was all long limbs, with a crop of short, dark hair askew atop his head and skin that appeared several shades darker than Keith's in the gloom. Maybe it was; Keith didn't know. He didn't really care either, because first and foremost he didn't recognise him. At all.

The boy's head was rocked backwards onto the back of the chair, his mouth hanging open slightly in sleep. Somehow it didn't detract as much from his visage as it perhaps should have. He had a thin face and sharp features, and had he not been drooling just a little bit, Keith thought he might have even been good looking. One leg was slung over an arm, long, slim fingers draped across his knee, and though as Keith watched he twitched slightly in his sleep it wasn't in wakefulness.

That at least was a blessing.

Keith didn't know where he was. He didn't know who the boy was, what had happened the previous night, where _Shiro_ was, because in the confusion of his thoughts that one fact was pronounced. He'd actually met Shiro, though it had been in less than ideal circumstances. He'd really met him.

But where was he? That question was suddenly paramount and it saddened Keith a little that he didn't know. The people he knew from Voltron, those he considered might even be his friends just a little, though he wasn't entirely sure about what constituted a real 'friend' these days or if he even wanted one, were somehow special. Keith hadn't thought he'd really wanted to meet any of them, but suddenly, at the prospect of actually doing so, he regretted that he hadn't appreciated the moment more when it had happened. If only he'd managed a bit of lucidity in the grogginess of his thoughts the previous night.

Pushing himself upwards from his recline was another struggle that left Keith gasping slightly but he managed. He managed it quietly too, which he considered a bonus because he didn't know if the boy across the room was a light sleeper or not.

Everything hurt more when he moved. Keith's fingers felt swollen as he pushed his blankets aside. His ankle protested when he dropped his foot to the ground alongside the bed, his knee a moment later. His head swam dizzyingly as he stood up and for a moment he had to grasp with fumbling fingers for the bed to steady himself before he fell. Strange. Keith hadn't realised the previous night just how hard he'd been hit.

How annoying.

 _But it doesn't matter,_ he thought, frowning to himself as he waited for his vision to stop swimming. _It doesn't matter if it hurts, or if I can't really see straight or… or anything._ In short, Keith didn't know where he was, who was with him or what had happened in the past however long he'd been out. That was the most concerning. It took a concerted effort for him to smother his growing tension. Freaking out wouldn't get him anywhere.

With steps as silent as he could manage, Keith made his tentative way around the bed. His hand trailed on the mattress to steady himself, but though each motion hurt he didn't really need the stabilisation. It was a blessing when he saw his clothes folded neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed; he didn't know why he was half naked but it didn't feel comfortable in the slightest. Vulnerable. And in vulnerability was never a good place to be.

As quietly as he could, Keith set about dressing himself, casting a glance towards the boy sleeping in the chair every other second. It hurt to move, to raise his arms above his head, and the pressure of even his thin shirt upon the bandages wrapping his chest made him grit his teeth, but it didn't slow him. It didn't stop him from shrugging the familiar weight of his jacket on either, just as the swelling and bandages around his ankle didn't give him pause when pulling his boots on.

Maybe he made a noise. Maybe the wince Keith couldn't quite suppress as he tugged his laces tightly was audible and he simply didn't hear it through the sudden indignant thumping of his heartbeat in his ears. Keith wasn't sure, but as he struggled to straighten his foot in his boot the boy behind him shifted and grumbled in his sleep.

Keith froze once more. Waiting for the sounds to cease, he slowly turning to glance over his shoulder. The boy was moving and, as he watched, the leg slung over the chair's arm stretched alongside the stretching of his arms overhead. A wide yawn split his face before, with a squeeze of his eyes, he was blinking himself awake.

There was a moment where Keith only stared at the boy and the boy stared right back at him. Neither moved but for the boy's slow blinking into lucidity, and then suddenly he was flowing into motion, all but leaping to his feet.

"What are you doing?"

Keith was straightening from his crouch in an instant and he immediately wished he hadn't. His body protested the sudden movement, his ankle and knee simultaneously demanding that he _stop standing right now,_ but Keith smothered their protests once more. He'd always been good at ignoring people, and that extended to himself. Instead, he simply reached a steadying hand towards the wall beside him and stared warily at the boy across the bed. "What?"

The boy started a step forwards and Keith bit down on the instinct to either raise his tender hand in a fist or withdraw a step in turn. Maybe both. The boy was frowning as he stared at Keith, eyebrows lowering further by the second. "What are you doing moving, you idiot?"

"What?"

"You shouldn't be out of bed. You've been beaten to a pulp."

"I know."

"You –?" The boy paused, blinked and shook his head. "Christ, you're exactly the same." For some reason he sounded as though he spoke more to himself than to Keith. A moment later and he was back to frowning once more, pointing to the bed. "You. Lie down. Now."

Keith stared at him. "What? Why?"

"We've just been through this. Stop asking questions and just do as you're told."

Keith did withdraw a step then, but only because the boy took another forwards. He didn't like this. He didn't know the boy who, though admittedly attractive when he wasn't slobbering, Keith didn't trust as far as he could throw him. Not that he would ever trust anyone but in the state he was in the distance of his throw would be even less impressive than usual.

Instead of following the boy's directions – he looked almost comical as his hands dropped to his hips – Keith frowned himself and shook his head. "I'm not doing anything you say. I don't even know who you are, let alone where I am, and –"

"You don't know who I am?" The boy's frown vanished into incredulously raised eyebrows. When he frowned against a second later it was with more indignation then scolding demand. "Okay, you definitely hit your head harder than we thought. I feel personally insulted that you don't remember me."

"Who are you?" Keith reiterated slowly. Maybe the boy was an idiot, but it didn't matter. Keith was growing less and less comfortable in an already discomforting situation and he didn't have the inclination to let the boy get away with presumptuousness. Now was not the time, the place or the circumstances, especially when Keith wasn't sure how much longer he could even remain on his feet for.

The boy's frown had settled so low it nearly disappeared into his eyes. He pouted expansively. "Ouch. That hurts. That really hurts, Red."

For a second Keith was confused. Maybe he really had been hit harder than he'd thought. Then the word registered to him and understanding slowly dawned. "Wait, you're… so you're…?" He studied the boy for a moment, the tall, lanky boy with hands propped on his hips and wearing a frown of pure affront. Not Shiro, obviously, because Keith remembered him enough to know that much. He was fairly certain the Princess was indeed a woman, and DiffWitch – or DiffWizard – he'd seen before, despite Pidge apparently not recognising him in return. Which left Butterfingers and Sharpshooter, the two possibilities that it wasn't even a question to pick between for the boy's words. Keith had shared enough conversations to differentiate them.

"You're Sharpshooter," Keith said more than asked. He flattened his palm against the wall, as much to ground as to steady himself. He hadn't… he couldn't think that…

How strange. Maybe it was his persisting dizziness but Keith already felt out of his depth in the unfamiliar situation and this only made him feel more so. He wasn't quite sure how to handle the knowledge that _this_ was the person he'd been speaking to for months now.

The boy, Sharpshooter, let his frown slide into a satisfied smile. "Well, at least your deductive powers aren't faulty. But it's Lance, by the way."

"Lance?"

"Lance."

"…Lance."

Lance quirked an eyebrow. "Now don't get hooked on this. Much and all as it would be funny if my name became the only thing you could say for the rest of your life, I don't think that would be such a good thing." Lance took another step towards Keith, edging around the bed, and in spite of himself Keith took another shuffling step backwards. He wasn't one to run from a fight, but that was under normal circumstances. This right here – this wasn't normal. He didn't hurt as much as he had but he hardly thought he could run. The longer he stood, the more confidence Keith had that he could continue to stand, but running wasn't an option. Besides, even if standing was possible, it didn't mean he didn't hurt to do so.

Whether Lance sensed as much or he was simply revisiting his earlier orders, Keith wasn't sure, but he gestured towards the bed once more with a simplistic, "Sit."

Keith shook his head; it wasn't a good idea and he had to pause for a second before speaking for the dizziness to pass, but he managed to vanquish it. He started a step towards the door, skirting along the wall with a hand pressed to the plaster. "No. No, I'm going to leave. I don't even know – I don't know where the hell I am and I don't –"

"You're not leaving," Lance said, stepping into his path. "You look like you're going to pass out."

"I'm not."

"Besides, if you wanted to know where you were you could just ask."

"You might not tell me the truth."

"Wow. Paranoid, are we?"

"Yes."

"And blunt."

"That too."

Lance stared at him and Keith could only shift slightly in place beneath his study. Lance had planted himself directly between Keith and the doorway, and Keith didn't think that charging through him to get out would be the best approach to the situations. Besides…

This was Lance. Sharpshooter. The person he'd been speaking to every day for weeks if not months. It was utterly unhinging to consider that he was the same person, that Keith was meeting him, and he hadn't even considered it to be an issue until that moment. Keith had never been inclined to meet anyone from the cyber world. Even the paladins of Voltron, those he spoke to most frequently, he'd never considered approaching. When he'd seen Pidge at the youth centre and realised who he was, he hadn't approached him. It hadn't felt right to do so. Not then, at least.

But this was Sharpshooter. Sharpshooter – _Lance_ – perhaps more than anyone else from Voltron was someone that Keith was familiar with. Someone he _knew_. He was someone… someone that Keith might even care a little bit about, if only because he spoke to Keith so often that he'd become his primary distraction from everything else in the world. Sharpshooter liked to talk, and he talked _a lot_. Keith hadn't realised that simply listening to – or more correctly reading – what someone else had to say would be so appealing until it had happened.

And now he stood before him. Sharpshooter, Lance, in all of his humanity, as more than simple blue text on the black backdrop of Voltron. Keith hadn't ever considered putting a face to any of the rest of the paladins, but if he had he didn't think they would look like Lance. Lance was… incredibly human and just a little bit distracting for more than just his humanity. And he was talking to Keith. Actually talking to him, sounding as loud just as he did in his written words.

It was strange yet somehow familiar at the same time. Keith wasn't quite sure what to make of it and in the state he was he didn't think he could try to work it out. Seeing Sharpshooter, meeting him, actually talking to him… Keith hadn't prepared himself for that because it had never anticipated it would going to happen. Now that it had he didn't know what to do with the situation. He was stumped.

That, and the fact that he hurt _a lot_. Keith wouldn't admit it, didn't let it show, but it was a struggle to keep it from his face.

"You really are about to collapse, aren't you?" Lance said, and damn him but apparently he was more perceptive than he looked.

Keith forced himself to straighten, dropping his hand from the wall. "No. I'm not. Could you move out of the way, please?"

"You're not leaving," Lance said. "Hunk would never let me hear the end of it."

"Hunk?" Keith asked, his mind groggily turning over the word. Then it clicked. "Is that Butterfingers?"

"Huh. So you really are smart."

"Deductive. There's a difference."

"Smart and deductive. Got it. But that doesn't excuse you. Hunk patched you up last night – that's where we are, by the way, at Hunk's house – and he'd have my head if I let you leave. Or," Lance paused for a moment, pursing his lips, "I guess he wouldn't have my head because Hunk would never do something like that. But he'd give me a right telling off."

Keith couldn't help but roll his eyes, though it did little for his headache. If anything it actually twinged a little painfully right behind the eyes. He blinked in an effort to clear it. "Very intimidating," he said, biting back a wince.

"You haven't met Hunk in person," Lance said. "His puppy dog eyes could make anyone – wait, stop. You're getting me off track."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are. Stop it." Lance pointed to the bed once more. "Sit down before I pick you up and put you there."

Keith regarded him flatly, drawing his eyes deliberately down Lance's body in an indicative gesture, which… he sort of wished he hadn't done, because even woozy as he was Keith was still human. He couldn't help but look and maybe appreciate just a little bit. Still, he kept his tone just as flat as he replied. "You'd never manage."

Lance pouted once more. "I would. I'm stronger then I look."

"Right."

"And I'm actually taller than you, you know."

"I doubt that. And if you are, there would be less than an inch in it."

Lance smirked as though triumphant. "Actually, I was the one that helped carry you in here. I could tell. I'm taller."

Keith managed another twinging roll of his eyes before placing a steadying hand on the wall once more. It was embarrassing and frustrating all at once to rely upon it but he hardly had much of a choice. "I'm glad you've soothed your ego, then. Has competitiveness of height discrepancy always been a personal struggle for you or is this just with me?"

"Height equates to prestige. It should be everybody's –" Lance cut himself off, and this time when he frowned it was with definite disgruntlement. "You're doing it again."

 _God, this is tiresome,_ Keith thought to himself, though he wasn't entirely sure if it was the repetitive conversation or the simple reality of standing. "Doing what?"

"Deflecting me. Have you always done that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh. Right." Lance regarded him for a moment before jerking his thumb towards the bed once more. "Haul arse, Keith. I swear, I'll pick you up if I have to. You need to lie down."

Keith didn't do what he was told. He'd so rarely done what he was asked to do in his life that the very tone Lance took immediately reared his objectionable hackles. It wasn't so much that Keith was disruptive or a 'problem child' as he'd heard termed but he'd never taken to authority particularly well. Not when more often than not those authorities didn't even ask but simply forced without heeding objection. Choice wasn't exactly something he was ever afforded. So what did he owe any one person? He'd shuffled through foster homes so many times, schools nearly as frequently, and the turnover wasn't exactly incentive to fostering respect in him for those he was supposed to abide by.

Except that in Lance's case there was something different. He was frowning but he wasn't angry. He was directing but it wasn't so much a forceful demand. There was an undertone to his words that Keith couldn't quite discern the meaning of, but was unlike anything he'd heard before. It made his words seem almost like a plea.

Keith had never had anyone speak to him quite like that before.

Abruptly, he didn't feel so well. Truthfully, Keith hadn't felt 'well' from the moment he'd woken, but he'd held himself together. He hurt, but he'd ignored that. He was tight with tension for the unfamiliar room, the lack of knowledge as to where he exactly was because learning it was 'Hunk's house' was nearly as useless as not knowing at all, but he'd smothered that out of necessity. He'd even accepted Lance's introduction and the disjointed understanding of the reality he now found himself in because he could do nothing _but_ accept it.

But this… it was just one push too far. It sounded almost as though Lance cared and Keith didn't know what to do about that. It felt strange. Wrong, even.

Turning his back into the wall, it was all Keith could do to moderate his slide down to the floor rather than collapse in a crumpling heap. He didn't like appearing weak in front of others – showing weakness was dangerous, he knew – but he could do little else. He hurt, he was tired despite only just waking up, he was confused, and _Lance_ was pretending he cared. Keith hated it when people pretended. It was worse than them not making the effort to pretend at all.

"Whoa, hey," Lance said, and he was suddenly at Keith's side, dropping onto his haunches next to him. "Are you alright? Wait, what am I saying, of course you're not alright."

"Could you please leave me alone?" Keith said, raising a hand to his forehead as much to hide his face as to attempt to alleviate his mounting throbbing in his temple.

"So you keep asking."

Keith peered through his fingers towards Lance as, quite without ceremony, he settled himself onto the floor right beside him. "What?"

Lance turned a crooked smile upon him that still carried a hint of that concern. That annoying, stupid concern. "You said that about a thousand times last night."

"I did?"

"You did."

"I don't remember."

"Yeah, I gathered." Lance gestured up to the bed. "It probably would have been better if you'd managed to collapse where you were supposed to, you know."

Keith narrowed his eyes and he told himself it wasn't entirely because of his headache. "Don't tell me what to do, please."

"You're so objectionable," Lance muttered, shaking his head. "You know, it doesn't really dampen your insolence when you tack a 'please' onto the end of your words."

"I wasn't asking for your opinion."

"You're in a shitty mood I can see."

Keith slowly lowered his hand from his face, meeting Lance's expectant gaze, but before he could say anything about Lance's _stupid_ comment, Lance seemed to realise how it sounded. He winced, shoulders hunching slightly. "Sorry. I guess it should be expected. My bad."

The expression on Lance's face seemed genuine, Keith realised. Not only was he largely expressive all over, but it appeared to be the case with every single one he adopted. He seemed to wear his emotions like a frequently changing mask and it was almost hard to keep up with. Useful, Keith thought detachedly as he stared at him sidelong. He'd never been good at reading other people, and had to guess most of the time from their words and following actions what they truly meant. Lance's expressiveness could be beneficial in a way that Keith had never had before.

Except that at the same time it was a little unnerving. Not because of the expressions but because Keith couldn't really see what was _under_ them, if there was anything at all. Maybe it was because he wasn't at his best. Maybe his brain simply wasn't functioning right, but he just couldn't tell. Lance's wince grew into curious staring of his own and that expression itself was so pronounced that it was impossible to see anything else.

Keith had never thought that an expression could be too blatant before. He would have thought it would be useful, but the more he thought about it the more he realised it wasn't. Not at all. He couldn't look away from the guise that was utterly disconcerting.

 _I must have really hit my head hard,_ Keith thought to himself. _Or had it hit hard, more accurately._ He unconsciously shifted his fingers to the side of his head, prodding at the faint throbbing that he hadn't quite acknowledged had been plaguing him since he'd awoken.

"What are you staring at?" Lance asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"What?"

"You're staring."

Keith blinked. "So are you."

"What?"

"You are too."

"No I'm –" Lance paused, and pursed his lips. "Shut up."

"You started talking first," Keith said without any real heat. For whatever reason, for all he felt a touch of annoyance at the fact that they were talking at all, he couldn't quite bring himself to grow irritated with Lance when he tried to kick-start an argument. He never really had, he realised detachedly. Not on Voltron, anyway. Sharpshooter's arguments had always seemed more an attempt to argue with him than to argue over a topic in particular.

"I'm just trying to make conversation," Lance said.

"Do you have to?" Keith muttered askance.

"Are you always so objectionable?"

Keith closed his eyes, rocking his head back onto the wall. "I guess."

"I could have picked it." Lance actually sounded satisfied with his apparent discovery, as though it was some profound realisation. Keith's suspicion that he simply liked arguing for the sake of it was reaffirmed. "Would it have killed you to go to the bed, though? I mean, I could do it, but it might be a bit of an effort to pull you up there by myself."

"Would it kill you to do something useful with yourself?" Keith mumbled in response. "Other than talking my ear off, that is."

It was taking more and more effort to speak. Honestly, it was a little bit ridiculous; Keith had barely woken up. He shouldn't be tired yet. He needed to leave and could foresee it as being a long trip to the Tulson's house. Very long, and slow, and quite possibly riddled with pauses and curious or horrified stares at the limping mess he would make in public.

"Oh, I could!" Lance exclaimed, and he was on his feet so fast Keith didn't even see him move before he was standing over him. "Usefulness. Right. Just hold on a second. Wait right there."

The way he held his hand out towards Keith almost in placation suggested that Lance expected him to make a break for it. Keith regarded him blankly. "Do you really expect me to move?"

"Well, you're kind of stubbornly tenacious so I wouldn't put it past you," Lance said before backing out of the room with a final, "Wait there." He disappeared into the briefly revealed hallway in a rush.

Keith couldn't exactly protest Lance's assumption. As soon as he'd left, Keith was struggling to his feet once more, using the wall more than he'd thought realistically necessary. Had he really been hurt so badly? Keith couldn't remember ever being so debilitated before.

It hardly mattered, however. It didn't matter that he hurt, that he wanted to climb into the unfamiliar yet very inviting bed and curl up for an eternity or two. It didn't matter that Lance was Sharpshooter, that he knew him and he'd spoken to him so often that he could recite the homework he'd received from every class the previous week. Keith wasn't a trusting person; he knew enough about himself to acknowledge that much. There was no emotion attached to that understanding because it simply was. Keith didn't put faith in people because people always left, always moved away, always got rid of him. It was far easier to simply rely upon himself.

He had to assume that the paladins of Voltron would only be the same. It was stupid to think otherwise.

Shuffling towards the doorway, Keith creaked the door open to peer into the dimly illuminated hallway beyond. The faint light seemed to seep from a distant morning glow creeping from an unseeable source. Keith glanced both ways along the hall before slipping from the bedroom and, hand all but clutching onto the wall, edged towards what he could only assume was the front door. It looked like the front door. He _hoped_ it was.

A murmur of voices caught his attention as he paused alongside an open archway that stood in place of a door. Slowing in his already slow step, Keith peered infinitesimally into the room beyond.

It was small and quaint; a living area with a pair of couches and one made up like a bed with blankets draped over the top of it. A small television was propped amidst a clutter of picture frames. A small dresser, what looked more like a footstool than a coffee table, and that was it. Simple. Minimalistic.

Standing beside the couch, Keith could make out the back of Lance's head through the moderate gloom as he spoke in hushed words to the man before him. Shiro, Keith realised. He could remember that much, if little more than that was who he was. The tall man with the white fringe, the one who wore an expression of open concern almost as pronounced as the ones Lance assumed.

Keith wasn't surprised to see him. He wasn't even overly wary, nor particularly curious. Something in the back of his head told him that his response probably wasn't normal. That he should have felt more, been excited perhaps – though the thought of excitement for meeting someone had never been a particularly common response for Keith. But he couldn't seem to find a shred of it the back of his head after the brief flicker with meeting Lance. In its place, the incessant pounding of a headache thumped with demanding slams of its fist. Keith could barely hear the words Lance and Shiro spoke through the throbbing.

"… more we could do," Shiro was saying in little more than a murmur. "We'll just have to wait and see. So long as Hunk's alright with us staying here –"

"And his gran," Lance interrupted nearly as quietly. "Hunk said she'd probably be here by seven."

"We should probably have one of us sit out the front to give her prior warning. I don't suppose Hunk called her?"

Lance shrugged. "He might have. Better to be safe, though, right?"

"Yes. Better to be safe."

The way they spoke made it very clear that Lance was deferring to Shiro. Keith could understand that, even from the few words he'd overheard. Shiro seemed to have a way of speaking that suggested single-minded confidence in his words.

 _Not that it means anything,_ Keith reminded himself automatically. _Just because he sounds dependable doesn't mean he is_.

Glancing once more towards the front door, Keith took half a step towards it before pausing as Lance continued. "What about Keith, then? What should we do with him? I mean, I doubt he'd actually _let_ us do anything but…"

Shiro nodded solemnly. "I have to agree with you. I can only be relieved that he's let you speak to him at all without objection."

Keith felt a touch of guilt rise within him at that. He never intended to be deliberately objectionable. He just didn't like people ordering him around or shouldering their way into his business. Was it so bad that he wanted his privacy respected? Social services knew everything about him as it was. Keith wouldn't have been surprised had they known he'd been in a fight the previous night.

The previous night? For a moment, Keith's stomach dropped in horror. Was it even last night that it had happened? How long had he been out?

"We'll have to contact his parents, though," Shiro was saying, and Keith dragged his attention back towards him. "They're probably worried about him."

 _Unlikely_ , Keith thought to himself. _Even Sara and Peter are more than used to me not being around._

"My mamá would be shitting herself if I just up and disappeared for a night," Lance whispered with an emphatic nod of his head.

"Perhaps we do that first, then? Call his parents and either have them pick him up or –"

"No."

Keith hadn't meant to step forwards. He hadn't meant to reveal himself or that he'd been eavesdropping, but he couldn't help it. He'd never liked having his decisions made for him, and he'd had more than enough of just that in his time.

As one, Lance and Shiro glanced towards him and, in that rapid step that Lance had exhibited before, he all but leapt across the room to Keith's side. "What are you doing? You should be –"

"Please don't tell me what I should be doing," Keith interrupted him.

Lance huffed with dramatic exasperation, hands rising to his hips once more. "Again with the please. Come on, we talked about this."

"Keith," Shiro said, overlooking their brief exchange with a solemn cast to his frown as he stepped towards them. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Keith said.

"Doubtful," Lance muttered. Keith briefly glanced his way but otherwise ignored him.

"I don't know how suitable it is for for to be walking right now," Shiro said. He gestured behind him to the couch. "Would you at least like to sit down?"

Keith shook his head – another bad idea, but he ignored the brief turn of dizziness – and folded his arms tightly across his chest. "No. Thank you, but I should be going. Would you thank Hunk for helping me, please?"

"Hunk wouldn't want you to go," Lance said.

"Well, then, it's a good thing for me he's not here," Keith replied.

Lance pouted. He seemed to do that a lot from what Keith had seen. "I am, though, and I'm not letting you leave when you look like you'd probably face-plant down the stairs rather than walk them. Seriously, man, we're just worried about you."

"You don't need to be," Keith said shortly. "I'm fine."

"Keith, could you at least sit down for a moment?" Shiro said, gesturing once more to the couch. "Even just while we call your parents."

"I'm not going to call them," Keith said. "There's no need for Sara and Peter to know."

"Sara and Peter?" Lance asked with a surprised series of blinks. "Are they your -?"

"Foster parents," Keith said, words clipped.

There. It was out. He hadn't really wanted to tell anyone on Voltron, but in this instance it was probably easier to simply let them know. Then at least they could stop talking about Keith's parents like they were actually still around. Keith had long since hardened himself to the reality that his parents were gone and never coming back. It was better not to regret because to regret just stuck him in the past.

Keith mourned his parents' loss but he never thought about their absence. He hadn't for over ten years.

Lance and Shiro stared at him for a long moment, faces suddenly unreadable. Or at least they were unreadable to Keith; even Lance's, which he'd assumed he might be able to discern just a little, was a confusion of furrowed brows and a slight downward tug of his lips. Shiro was a blank slate.

"Your foster parents?" Shiro echoed as if seeking for clarification. Keith didn't bother replying.

"Then…" Lance seemed to struggle for a moment before continuing. "Then maybe call them?"

"I just told you, they don't need to know. And I'm not getting them to come and pick me up. I can make my own way back to their house when I want to."

" _Their_ house?" Lance asked, voice rising slightly.

"Keith, I'm sure they'd come to get you if you asked," Shiro said.

Keith shook his head, ignoring the now expected rush of dizziness. "I don't want them to."

"Then maybe Lance would be able to drive you home?" Shiro glanced towards Lance. "You said you had to take your car back home, didn't you? Would it be alright if you dropped us to Keith's house."

"No," Keith said shortly, frustration creeping upon him. "I don't want you to."

"Why not?" Lance asked, frown furrowing deeper. "We just want to help –"

"I don't want help," Keith said, and he took a step backwards. "I never asked for it. Could you just stick your nose out of it?"

"Listen, you need the help, Keith," Shiro said with a placating rise of his hand. His only hand, Keith realised detachedly, before disregarding the consideration for later. "Can you just let us help you? If not us, then maybe you might reconsider going to the hospital -?"

"No," Keith said sharply. Then he turned on his heel with as much firmness as he could step and strode towards the front door. Lance's, "Wha -? Wait!" Didn't slow him for a second.

He did, however, when, the second his dropped his hand onto the doorknob, Lance grabbed Keith's shoulder. It was likely meant to be little more than a staying hand, but Keith wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready and Lance likely didn't realise how unsteady he was on his feet. Keith knew he was good at hiding that kind of thing.

They toppled in a heap, Lance loosing a yelp as he crashed to the ground. Keith grunted, bit his lip fiercely as a sharp pain tore through his belly and stuttered his breath. His ankle throbbed in distress and for a moment the pounding in his head redoubled so that he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat in his skull.

His vision blacked. That was… not good.

Noise trickled back into his awareness only gradually alongside the knowledge that Lance's hand was still on his shoulder. It was in a different kind of hold this time. "… so sorry, Keith, fuck, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Fucking hell, I didn't mean to grab you that hard and –"

"Hold on, Lance, just – let's just hold on for a second," Shiro said, cutting across Lance's frantic words. He sounded close and it was only then, relying solely on the sound of their voices, that Keith registered that he'd actually closed his eyes. He peeled them open and peered up at Lance where he bent over him, Shiro crouched at his side.

Lance's eyes were blown wide. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to."

"Doesn't matter," Keith said, because it was all he could think to say. It worked in that it actually seemed to shut Lance up.

Shiro wasn't quite so silenced. "Come on, we'll get you to the couch. Lance, help me if you would."

They managed. Somehow, between the three of them, they managed to make it to the couch in Hunk's living room. A moment of silence settled between them when they made it with a final huff, Lance propped on the cushion at Keith's side and Shiro standing before them, his arm resting across his chest. "Are you alright, Keith?"

Keith glanced up at him. It was just a little humiliating – and exposing – to collapse in front of Shiro and Lance. To have collapsed in front of anyone, for that matter. He forcibly shunted aside the lingering protests of his body and nodded. "I'm fine."

"Maybe a hospital," Lance began.

"No," Keith said shortly. "Go and take yourself to a hospital."

Lance blinked as though surprised by Keith's words, shaking his head slowly. "That doesn't even make sense. I don't need to – wait, that's irrelevant. What's your problem with hospitals?"

Keith was pressed his lips together. He couldn't tell them. He couldn't tell them how one of his earliest memories was being all but dragged to his local hospital by the police just in time to see his mother, broken and battered, die in her bed. He couldn't tell them that he'd never quite believed in hospitals since then and that, after living with the Mackenzie's when he was ten and visiting a hospital for his second time, he had been convinced only death abounded there. He'd never quite been able to shake the recollection of his foster mother's father passing away in a wheezing mess. The nurses hadn't managed to shuttle him from the room in time and his foster mother's sobs had echoed through the halls.

Even knowing that his logic was failing when it came to hospitals, Keith couldn't abide them. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to walk into the chemical smelling white walls to face what he could only see as the deathbed of the sick and dying. Keith didn't tell Lance that, however, and, sparing him only a sidelong glance, he shook his head. Slowly this time. "I just don't like them."

"So no hospitals," Shiro said. "Provided you don't deteriorate."

"I won't –"

"And you don't want us to call your foster parents," Shiro continued, overriding Keith in a way that somehow didn't sound quite as rude as it perhaps should have. "Will you at least call them?"

Keith didn't speak. He didn't dislike the Tulsons, but he strove to have as little contact with them as possible. It was easier that way for when he moved on to somewhere else. He'd learned that much at least. He only shook his head.

"I'm not getting positive vibes here," Lance muttered, then cringed slightly as though he hadn't meant to speak. "Sorry."

"Keith," Shiro said slowly, taking half a step closer to the couch. Keith, peering up at him warily, was forced to meet his gaze before he would continued. "Do you not want to go back to your foster home?"

Keith shrugged. "Why does it matter?"

"It matters," Lance said. "Of course it matters."

"No it doesn't. It's not like I have a choice where I go."

He probably shouldn't have said it, but the thought had been one Keith had been stuck with for a long time. He couldn't quite suppress it when someone asked. Not that anyone had ever asked. Not before Shiro and Lance.

"Then stay here," Lance said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Hunk said he's okay with it –"

"But I'm not," Keith said, turning towards Lance. "What if I don't want to? I don't want to take up his space."

"Take up his space?" Lance said, eyebrows rising in a snap.

"Hunk wouldn't even consider that, Keith," Shiro said. "I've only known him briefly in person but I can be sure of that much."

"It doesn't matter."

Shiro was silent for a moment and Keith could almost hear his mind ticking as he considered. Keith knew he was being difficult. He didn't do it deliberately but he knew it nonetheless. He couldn't bring himself to look up at him, but Keith knew the moment Shiro had decided what to do with him. He'd experienced just that more times than he could count.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," Shiro said decisively. "Keith, I'm sorry, but you're in no shape to move at the moment. We'll stay here for a little longer until you're able to go somewhere else, whether that's to have your foster parents come and pick you up, deciding you might want to go to the hospital, or something else. You might not like it, Keith, but I don't think you're in the right frame of mind to make decisions about your wellbeing at the moment."

 _So you'll make them for me?_ Keith thought but didn't say. He wondered why he felt guilty for thinking it. Maybe it was simply because Shiro sounded so apologetic when he spoke. Decisive, but apologetic nonetheless.

Shiro continued after barely a heartbeat of a pause. "We'll work out what to do when Hunk gets home. I don't want you to have to go to your foster home if you don't feel comfortable there, so if that means simply moving between friend's houses then that's what we can do."

 _What friends?_ Keith thought, but again he didn't speak. Shiro continued through his silence. "I might be able to work something out. If what I'm hoping for can come through, I could possibly move back into my own apartment. That could be an option too, if just temporarily."

"Wait, you have your own apartment?" Lance said. "I mean, no, sorry, that was stupid. Seriously, I didn't really think you lived at the hospital, Shiro."

Keith glanced blearily between them. Maybe he just wasn't thinking straight, but… lived at the hospital? He hadn't known Shiro was _staying_ at the hospital, only that he'd been there. The interruption was brushed aside a moment later, however, as Shiro continued.

"You've got nothing to apologise for. I'm just saying it might be an option." He drew his gaze back to Keith and Keith struggled to maintain eye contact. It was surprisingly hard with someone like Shiro. "I think that's probably what we need to do, Keith. Even just for a little while I think you need to let people take care of you, even if you don't like it. You need the help."

Keith didn't like following orders. He never had. That didn't mean he didn't do it, however. He had done countless times, cow-toeing the line when the social workers forced him to. He'd never liked it but he'd done it.

When Shiro spoke like that, Keith was used to bowing his head and complying. It never felt right but he did it anyway. Everything else always simply fell into place after that.

Silence ensued in which Keith dropped his gaze to stare blankly ahead instead, all but ignoring Shiro and Lance both. Then, with more enthusiasm that was perhaps necessary, Lance spoke. "Don't look so worried, Red. If it worries you so much, maybe we could just head out somewhere tomorrow if you're up for it." Faster than Keith's reflexes could respond to at that moment and entirely unexpectedly, Lance reached for Keith's head and gave a gentle tug to the mess of hair at the side on his head. "You said you don't want to stick around Hunk's house, right? Maybe if we can just get out for a little bit? You've got us to hang around with, after all."

Keith started at the touch, jerking his head back in withdrawal as he lanced towards him, but Lance only smiled. It was a little tentative but it was a smile nonetheless. Keith had never really considered a smile to be 'good' before that. Even through he depths of his solemnity, his introversion and deliberate detachment, Keith could register that much.

After a long pause, he shrugged. It was as much agreement as he was prepared to give.

* * *

_PrincessOfAltea: Hello?_

_PrincessOfAltea_ : _Is anyone around?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound demanding but I'm just very concerned for how Red is. Is he alright?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Whenever anyone has a moment, I would be very grateful if you could let me know._

_BlackLion007 has entered the chatroom._

_BlackLion007: Hello, Princess._

_BlackLion007: Have you been waiting long? I'm sorry to keep you._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, not at all. It's no trouble. I don't mind waiting._

_PrincessOfAltea: How is Red?_

_BlackLion007: Red is being very much like Red, I'm afraid._

_PrincessOfAltea: Meaning?_

_BlackLion007: Objectionable in the kindest use of the term. He's a very stubborn person. I am given the impression that he's very self-reliant and independent._

_PrincessOfAltea: Much like his virtual self, then?_

_BlackLion007: Yes, I think that would be a very accurate description of the situation. I've found he acts much like the person we've known him to be._

_PrincessOfAltea: Is he alright, though? You mentioned last night that you were potentially leaning towards a hospital admission?_

_BlackLion007: I don't think that's going to happen._

_PrincessOfAltea: That's good, then._

_BlackLion007: I'm fairly sure he'd make a run for it if we tried._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh. That's not so good._

_PrincessOfAltea: Is he injured? Does he need further help? I can call for private assistance if necessary. Just send me the details of where to direct him and I could send our family doctor._

_BlackLion007: That's very kind of you. Thank you, Princess._

_BlackLion007: I'll definitely keep it in mind, but I think he's alright for the moment. We're just deciding where we'll actually go, but I'll keep you updated._

_PrincessOfAltea: That would be appreciated. Thank you._

_BlackLion007 has signed out of the chatroom._

* * *

Lance went to school.

That was the short story, anyway. In the long version, it was much more complicated than that and made even more complicated by the fact that Lance _really_ didn't want to go to school.

It started with Shiro offhandedly mentioning it was a Friday and asking Lance whether he really was still at school as he'd suspected of him. They'd coaxed Keith back to Hunk's guest bedroom and all but forced him into the bed, because as it happened Keith was a stubborn bastard, something Lance had always known but never fully appreciated until he'd met him in person. After that, Shiro urged them to retreat from the room, closing the door behind them.

"It's Friday today, isn't it?" He asked quietly when they made their way back to the living room.

Lance, gaze still drawn to the hallway, to the guest room beyond, to where Keith was resting, struggled to turn his attention towards him. He blinked at Shiro for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. Why?"

Shiro shook his head, his arm folding across his chest in that way that made Lance think he'd had a habit of crossing his arms when he'd had both of them. "No, it's just… sometimes I have a bit of difficulty remembering which day it is. They run together sometimes when you've no particular schedule, you know?"

Lance nodded slowly. He supposed he could understand that, if only detachedly. Shiro had been at hospital and apparently living there for some time. Maybe it was common to lose track of the days? "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you need to be somewhere, Lance? I realise I dragged you out in the middle of the night and I'm sorry about that. You mustn't have gotten a lot of sleep last night."

That much was true, Lance would admit. He still had a crick in his neck from how he'd been sleeping and had sworn to himself numerous times that morning already that he was never going to sleep in a chair ever again. But that hardly mattered. It wasn't of importance, because regardless of Shiro's apology about 'dragging him out', Lance was glad he'd been called. That he'd been able to come to Shiro's aid and meet him in the process. That he'd met _Red_ …

He was still wrapping his head around that reality and didn't feel like he was going to fully comprehend it any time soon. He couldn't… he couldn't help but…

Glancing once more over his shoulder towards the hallway, Lance shrugged. Despite it all and wanting to be nowhere else in the world at that moment, Shiro's words resounded with him. He should be at home. He should be helping his mamá and papá with getting everyone ready for the day. He'd all but stolen their car and driven halfway across the city, had barely spared a moment to message his mamá so that she wouldn't worry, and was abandoning them once more by remaining at Hunk's house. It didn't matter how much he wanted to spend time with Keith and Shiro, that he wanted to remain until Hunk got back from work and Keith woke up again to make sure he was okay. He had a responsibility to his family, and the guilt of not being there for them niggled at him incessantly.

"I have school today," Lance admitted. "It starts a little later this morning, but…" If he was being honest, Lance would admit that school was about the least of his concerns that day.

Shiro, however, apparently had other ideas on the matter. He straightened where he was standing, which Lance wouldn't have thought possible because he was already pretty damn straight, and frowned. "You need to go, then."

Lance shook his head. "No, it's okay. It's just one day –"

"Lance." Shiro's frown deepened. "You should go."

"I don't want to just leave you here. What if something happens? No way, I'm not just taking off and –"

"Lance," Shiro interrupted him once more. He paused until he was sure that Lance had silenced before continuing. "We'll still be here when you get back. If you want to come back this afternoon, that is. But school is important. You shouldn't miss out on your education."

Lance opened his mouth to reply but found his tongue stilled before Shiro's words. More than that, they resounded with those he'd shared with Hunk weeks ago when they'd begun really talking about themselves without the virtual filter between them. Hunk didn't go to school. He never said it directly, but Lance was always given the impression that he'd never wanted to stop attending in the first place. The same age as Lance as he was he could have still been attending, but…

His mom. Hunk's mom seemed as much a burden to him as the most important thing in the world.

When Lance considered his own situation, how his family would benefit from him dropping out and simply working but had insisted he continue anyway, he couldn't allow himself protest to the sense of Shiro's words further. Not with Hunk's wistfulness echoing in the back of his mind. Still, he couldn't help but mutter, "Keith's not going to school. It's not the end of the world if he misses a day."

Shiro's lips actually twitched at that, but before Lance could decide if it was in the beginning of a smile or a frown he shook his head, expression smoothing once more. "I think Keith has got a pretty good excuse, Lance."

Which served to make Lance feel like an ass. He hadn't meant it like that. He hadn't meant to sound accusing or petulant. It was just that… the thought of Keith not going to school, of how often they'd spent exchanging messages during class and all but saving Lance's sanity in Chemistry and yet not having him there that day… it had Lance turning towards the guest room once more.

"He'll be alright, Lance," Shiro said, drawing Lance's attention once more. "I'll make sure I stick with him until you or Hunk get back, alright?"

"Until we get back?" Lance asked, frowning. "What, are you leaving? Why? I mean, where are you going? You're just going to _leave_?"

Lance hadn't meant to sound accusing again, and blessedly Shiro didn't seem to think him so for he only shook his head with the touch of a solemn smile on his lips. "Only briefly. I'll have to take a trip to the hospital to sort some things out."

"Oh," Lance said, and couldn't think of anything to add.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"No, it's not that. Nothing bad. I was just curious."

Shiro's smile widened gently and Lance found himself unable to look away. There was something about Shiro's smile, some sense maturity beyond his years and radiating sense of comfort, that immediately instilled confidence in him. Lance was reminded of the feeling he'd had more often than he could count as a kid, when his papá reassured him everything would be alright even when he couldn't see it being so. Lance hadn't felt like that for a long time. Not since he'd realised his papá was human too.

"Come on," Shiro said. "You should get going. I'll send you a message through Voltron today if you'd like just to let you know how things are holding up."

Lance nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. Although," he tugged his phone from his pocket and clicked it to life, "why don't you just message me? Here, I'll give you my number."

Less than five minutes later, through a return of frowning reluctance and many a glance towards Keith's room that was followed by Shiro's reassurances that "He'll be okay, Lance. Really", he left. Lance didn't know quite how to tell Shiro that it wasn't so much that he was worried Keith wouldn't be okay – though he would admit he was a little worried because Keith had looked like shit that morning – but that he just didn't want to leave at all.

Driving back home through heavy traffic and cursing New York City's infrastructure, Lance was left to his thoughts. Of meeting even more of the paladins of Voltron the previous night and that, despite the severity of the circumstances, and of how utterly incredible it was that he'd met them at all. After meeting Hunk, despite it being unconventional, Lance had desperately wanted it with all of them.

Shiro was everything he'd expected him to be – a strong, quiet sort, like an unyielding oak tree that provided support and strength to any that might rest upon him. It didn't matter that he was one arm less or visibly scarred from whatever had happened to him in the army. It didn't matter that he seemed nothing if not a self-deprecating at times either. Shiro was even more incredible in the flesh than Lance had thought him online. He'd grown to admire him simply for his strength of character, the way he could stand his ground without invoking conflict as Lance knew he himself was prone to inducing, and how he seemed so completely capable of bequeathing compassion upon those around him without complaint. That was certainly something to aspire to. Lance had never really considered joining the army, but if it churned out people like Shiro he couldn't help but feel drawn to it.

And then there was Keith.

Keith. Red. _Keith_. Lance had barely been able to look away from him since he'd met him, and it wasn't because he was bruised and beaten. It wasn't because he looked exhausted enough to collapse and Lance had been worried that he might do just that if he didn't keep an eye on him. It wasn't even because, under the bruise that mottled his cheek, he was kind of pretty. No, maybe pretty wasn't the right word; Keith was too hard, his features sharpened to a point by that hardness of expression, to be quite _pretty_ , but he was eye-catching nonetheless.

It was because he was Red. Keith was Red and, despite how much Lance had spoken to him he knew so little _about_ him. It was an unshakeable bone of contention between the two of them that Keith never spoke a word of himself, what he liked, and who he really was. He hadn't up and left the chatroom in some time in response to Lance's probing questions, so Lance considered they'd progressed, but he still knew little enough about him. That Keith had a thing for swords, something Lance had only discovered the previous afternoon, was about the bluntest admission of actually being interested in something that he'd ever been able to extract from him.

Now it was different. Now he had a face to place to the name, an image of Red that somehow made him more real. A cute face, too, that was barely detracted from by hair that bordered on mullet standards and Lance sincerely wished he could get his hands on. From a barber's perspective, of course. Keith was as blunt and direct as he was online, but this time Lance had a voice accompany the ruddy words of text. He was stubborn as Lance had always known, but there were actions that demonstrated that stubbornness instead of just the mulish resistance from his online voice.

In such a short time of actually knowing him, Lance had learned more about Keith he had of Red in weeks. He'd learned that he could move quietly – impossibly quietly for someone as bruised and battered as he was – and that he was so stubbornly independent it was almost stupid. He'd learned that he had a fiercely intent gaze that locked with Lance's unabashedly, dark eyes unblinking, and Lance wouldn't have been able to look away if he'd wanted to. He'd learned that Keith was sarcastic – which he'd already known – but that apparently what Lance had construed as sarcasm online wasn't always so. Keith was just ridiculously blunt at times.

And he'd learned that Keith was a foster kid. That he apparently had serious trust issues because sticking around people who he'd been talking to for months was too much to ask and he needed to escape, despite struggling to even walk. Lance didn't know what to think about that. Knowing _that…_ it added a whole knew meaning to everything Keith did. Maybe that was why Keith hadn't told them all anything of himself in the first place?

But in short, Lance was fascinated. He would admit that a big part of the reason he didn't want to leave Hunk's house was because he feared he might miss something. As irrational it that might seem, Lance didn't want to miss a second of learning about Keith.

Lance though a lot about Keith – and Shiro, and Hunk too, for that matter – on the drive home, and by nine o'clock was pulling into his driveway. He should have headed off to school immediately, but the sound of a wail from indoors, not unfamiliar for their street but pronounced nonetheless, drew his feet up the cracked footpath and sidling through the front door between the usual piles of crap that always shunted out the front of their house. Why Janey and Mika had to leave their shit lying in their sorry excuse of a front garden was a mystery to him.

Harper was in the hallway when Lance walked through the door, crouched against the wall with her legs splayed around her and entirely ignoring the shouts and exclamations from further inside the house. She had a book clasped in her hands that was far too old for her, but she appeared to be content enough to simply sit and flick through the pages and mouth the words she recognised. She glanced up at Lance as he entered and a bright smile drew across her face. "Lance! Hi, Lance! Mamá wasn't sure if you'd come back this morning."

Before Lance could reply, another wail sounded from further inside the house, rebounding off the walls. He glanced along the hallway and up the length of the stairs, pursing his lips. "Is Ditz being a ditz again?"

"Ditz is always ditzy," Harper replied before turning back to her book. And that was it. Conversation finished.

Slipping past her, Lance took the stairs two at a time and, navigating piles of clothes and discarded toys, made his way to the twins' room. They had their own room to share while Harper was in with Janey and Mika, and Lance with Isabel. It was simply easier that way; Harper had woken up to them too many times throughout the night for it to be suitable to share with them anymore.

Lance stuck his head into the room of chaos to find his mamá wrestling with a resistant Ditz as she struggled to pull a shirt over his head. Her efforts weren't helped any by Dee Dee clinging to her waist and attempting to clamber into her lap or Ditz's very obvious objection to the clothing. Lance was impressed that his mamá still had a hold of him at all for his wriggling and wailing.

He crossed the room in an instant and, pinning Ditz with a hand, made short work of dressing him. His mamá accepted his help with nothing more than a grateful smile. She released Ditz to scramble from the room in a fit of objection the second the shirt was properly fitted.

Sighing, hitching Dee Dee into her arms, Lance's mamá rose to her feet. "Thank you, Lance. He's in a mood this morning. Threw his porridge everywhere."

Shrugging, Lance smiled. "It's okay. No problem."

Jiggling Dee Dee on her hip slightly, she turned towards him, weary eyes raking his from head to foot. "You're looking tired. Didn't you get any sleep last night?"

 _She says that_ I _look tired?_ Lance thought, mentally shaking his head. He shrugged once more. "I'm alright."

"What time is it? Shouldn't you be heading off to school?"

"I just got in. I'll leave in a bit, just…" He didn't want to disappear when Ditz was on one of his highs. His mamá had enough trouble juggling all three of his youngest siblings when Ditz behaved himself.

"You just got in?" Lance's mamá asked, blinking rapidly as though to clear the grogginess from her mind. Then understanding dawned with another sigh. "Oh, yes, your friend! How are they? Are they alright?"

Even in the midst of madness, standing in the middle of a room that had been turned on its head with a muttering Dee Dee in her arms and Ditz's cries of ensuing indignation echoing through the house, Lance's mamá still had the headspace to be concerned for him. He didn't know how she did it.

Forcing his smile to widen with as much sincerity as he could manage, Lance nodded. "He'll be alright, I'm sure. Another one of my friends is staying with him but he said he'd message me today. He ordered me to go to school, Mamá. _Ordered_ me. Can you believe that?"

"How dare he," his mamá said with a smile.

Lance's grin grew more genuine. "I'll message him this afternoon after school to see how Keith's going."

"Keith? That's your friend?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you just go and visit him yourself?"

Lance shifted in place, glance dropping to Dee Dee for a moment who met his gaze with a fixed one of his own. Lance wanted to. He really did want to go back to Hunk's to see Keith, already wanted to go even after leaving so short a time ago, if only to make sure that he was still there and see he was okay with his own eyes. But every passing second he spent in his mamá's company reinforced that he couldn't do that. Not now. Not today. He had a responsibility to his family.

"I should probably go to the shop today and help out Papá," he said. "I didn't go yesterday."

"Lance," his mamá said, eyebrows lowering. "No."

"No what?"

"Go and see your friend. You papá doesn't need you today."

"He always needs me there. He just doesn't say it."

His mamá didn't deny that but instead entirely disregarded his words. "And yet he manages without you on the days you aren't there. Lance, go and see your friend after school. You papá will survive without you for another day or two."

"Mamá, I –"

"Lance."

The way she said his name, so shortly and as directly as she always did, was strangely reminiscent of how Shiro had spoken to him earlier that morning. Just as with Shiro, Lance found he couldn't speak another word of objection, even if he knew he should. Even if the thought of not doing what he was supposed to, of not returning home to help out or going to his papá's shop, filled him with nauseous guilt.

Though he didn't speak, Lance's mamá clearly understood his silence for what it was. "Lance," she began once more, but was overridden by Dee Dee on her hip.

"Lance, why don't you want to go and see your friend?" he asked, voice high in confused query. "I want to go and see Mitch when he's sick all the time, even if I might get sick too when he sneezes on me, which is kind of yuck but I don't care. Why don't you want to see your friend, Lance? Why?"

As Lance dropped his attention towards his little brother's baffled expression, he caught a glimpse of his mamá's quivering lips before she spoke. "You heard your brother, Lance. Why don't you want to see him?"

"Of course I want to see him," Lance said, perhaps a little more forcefully than he'd intended. Unfortunately, those simple words and his mamá's open expression loosened the floodgates further. "Of course I do. I'm worried about him because he was still practically passed out when I left this morning, and I'm worried that he might do something stupid even though Shiro's there to make sure he's alright and Hunk's gran's going to be there and she doesn't take no shi – nothing from anyone." Lance managed to smother his curse for Dee Dee's sake at the last second. "Of course I want to see him, but –"

"No butts," his mamá said chidingly, to Dee Dee's echoed, "No butts, Lance. No butts."

"Mamá," Lance began.

"Lance, stop this," his mamá said with another sigh. She shifted Dee Dee on her hip for a moment and didn't protest when Lance offered his hands out to take him instead. Dee Dee wasn't really small enough to warrant being picked up by his slip of a mamá anymore. "You're allowed to see your friends."

"I'd feel bad leaving after I was gone all last night," Lance said, frowning down at Dee Dee as he stuck his thumb into his mouth.

Lance's mamá absently reached forwards and tugged Dee Dee's hand away from his mouth. "Don't," she said. "I'd be worried about my friend too."

 _What friend?_ Lance heard himself think ungratefully and immediately cringed from the thought, even if it was one of regret. It wasn't his mamá's fault she barely had the time for her own friends. Before he could speak another word, however, she was continuing. "Now, I don't want to hear anything more of this. You need to get off to school."

Lance did go to school after that. Not immediately, for he couldn't very well leave when Ditz was still running around crazily, but he before ten o'clock had passed he was running through the ever-present throngs of the pedestrian crowd towards the bus stop and jumping onto the bus a second before the doors hissed closed.

School was different that day, and Lance would be lying if he said he took much of it in. He spent half of it messaging Shiro and the rest talking to DiffWitch online. It was strange speaking solely to DiffWitch, would have been strange even had the Princess or someone else been online. More correctly, it was strange because Red wasn't. Lance always spoke primarily to Red or Butterfingers, but it was always Red who was simply there. When Lance considered it, considering how private and largely resistant to companionship Keith seemed to be as a person, he had to wonder why he did spend so much time on Voltron. He wondered why he'd signed up at all.

Bypassing Isabel, Mika and Janey on the bus trip home – and being drilled by an unexpectedly persistent Isabel about what had happened as though it was any of her business – Lance guiltily yet blessedly found himself making his way to Hunk's house. He hopped between buses and trains and barely two hours after school found himself slipping through Hunk's front door once more.

Lance was familiar with Hunk's house. It was simplistically laid out, minimalistic at best and yet somehow homely. He'd visited before and had been introduced to Hunk's mom, but more importantly he'd met Hunk's gran. Grandma Fae was a force to be reckoned with if Lance had ever met one.

Fae was there when Lance stepped into the house proper. Pausing in the doorway to the living room, he caught sight of her in the most domestic fashion possible as she stood beside her silent and prone daughter, folding a leaning tower of laundry. In Grandma Fae, it seemed to be more of a battle through the pile than an act of neatly sorting.

Fae didn't look her age of sixty-seven. She was a plump woman, short with wiry hair faded to a metallic grey, and she moved with the sprightliness of someone at least ten years her junior. She always wore a determined expression and she was always talking, whether to her daughter, to Hunk, to Lance or simply to herself. She appeared to be speaking to the pile of laundry as he paused to watch her.

"… never-ending pile you are. Couldn't show some decency in folding yourselves, now, could you? No, poor Hunk has to put you away himself. The silly boy, why he didn't just tell me there was a basket I'll never know. Hiding it away in the laundry like that, silly child…"

Clearing his throat, Lance adopted a smile. "Afternoon, Fae. How are you today? Looking as bright and cheerful as always."

Fae snapped her attention towards him but didn't pause in her folding for a second. Her expression didn't soften any, but then it never did; not for Lance, and not even for nor Hunk or her daughter, despite her profoundly apparent love for the both of them. "You're over here, then, are you?"

"I am. I thought you might have missed my beautiful face. It's been a while."

"It's been not even a week since I last saw you, boy-o, and you know it," Fae grumbled, forcibly placing a folded shirt upon the tower of clothes as though demanding it remain placed. She snatched up another. "Hunk's being invaded by you, is he?"

Lance, having glanced towards Hunk's mom where she sat as still and silent as always, seemingly blankly watching Fae work, blinked back towards her. "Invaded? Now, Fae, surely you know me well enough to know that I would never intrude where I'm not wanted. Surely."

Fae harrumphed. "Surely," she muttered, and it seemed more in objection to his words than agreement. "But it's not just you. It's the other two as well."

"Keith and Shiro?" Lance glanced unconsciously down the hallway towards the guest room. "You've met them?"

"I could hardly not," Fae said. "In my daughter's house like they own the place. The hide of them both."

"To be fair, they were invited. And I doubt either of them would be deliberately disruptive." Lance held up his hands in placation as Fae turned her frown upon him. "I'm just saying."

Fae grumbled something under her breath before continuing loud enough for Lance to hear. "Well, that's true, I suppose. I couldn't see it of Shiro muscling his way into anywhere at least."

Lance stared at her. With the exception of bodybuilders, Shiro was perhaps one of the most physically imposing people he'd ever seen, and it wasn't simply because of his height or the breadth of his shoulders. He just seemed the kind of person to stand his ground. But apparently… "Has Shiro caught you smitten, Fae?" Lance asked, another grin spreading across his lips. "I would never have guessed it. Fae Garrett, heart captured by a man young enough to be her grandson."

A shirt smacked him in the face, and when Lance lowered it, it was to face Fae's open scowl as she half bent to snatch up another one. It wasn't sincere, Lance knew. He'd come to understand Fae's quirks well enough by now to know that she didn't dislike him. Hunk had even said that she was quite fond of him, though Fae would never admit such a thing herself. Teasing and joking was simply how they interacted with one another. "You keep that tongue inside your mouth, boy, before I cut it out for you," she said. "And hand me back that shirt."

"Hey! You were the one that threw it at me!"

"I was. Now hand it back and go and see your fellow intruder. I've had enough of you in my way, the lot of you. Poor Maggie can't have a moment's peace with you lot banging and clanking around."

Passing the shirt back to Fae, Lance spared a glance for Hunk's mom once more. Maggie didn't seem terribly perturbed by the supposed ruckus. She never really appeared much of anything, for that matter. Lance had always admired Hunk for his commitment when his mom seemed nothing if not oblivious to his efforts. He didn't blame Maggie, but it would surely be hard to maintain such dedication.

He was distracted by Fae's words unfolding themselves in his mind, however. "Wait, did you say Keith is awake?"

"I said no such thing, no," Fae replied. "But yes, he is. Shiro left when my Hunk woke up this afternoon but he said he'll be back soon. Said he'd be picking up dinner for the lot of you too, God bless him."

"He left?" Lance asked, though he supposed he'd already known Shiro was going to. Still, it worried him that he'd left at all, even if he did trust Hunk to take care of Keith. For some reason, Lance found himself unduly concerned that Keith would disappearing into thin air if he looked away for too long. Hunk might be just as physically capable as Shiro but he doubted he had quite the presence or dedication to pin Keith to the ground if he tried to make a run for it.

Not that Shiro would, mind. Lance suspected that Shiro would somehow manage with a simply word to get Keith to stay, just as he had the previous day.

"He's allowed to leave whenever he wants," Fae called after Lance as he made his way down the hall into the kitchen. "And don't you have anything to say about it, boy!"

Lance barely heard a word she said, for in an instant he was standing in the doorway into the kitchen and staring at the simplistic room with its round table and the two figures seated at it. The scene was just a little awkward for the silence, but not profoundly so. Not enough to envelope Lance in its awkwardness as he stepped through the doorway. He noticed Hunk because it was impossible to miss him; a big young man, roughly as tall as Lance and about his age too, he had heavy eyelids that seemed only on the verge of widening for the mug of coffee he cupped in his hands. He was in a pair of yellow and orange pyjamas that clashed appallingly with the greens of the kitchen.

But Lance hardly saw him. He couldn't because Keith sat directly across the table from him and Lance's eyes were drawn as though magnetised.

It was more than fascination, Lance knew. It wasn't just that Lance was curious about Keith, or that he was seeing him in reality for the first time and was captivated by a real-life version of Red. It felt different to how it had been meeting Hunk, meeting Shiro, and Lance wasn't ignorant enough to think it was anything but what it was. He'd had a crush before.

Keith had his own hands curled around a mug of coffee that looked as of yet untasted. He wore the same fingerless gloves he'd had the previous day, the same red and white jacket, the same boots, which, when Lance considered it, he should have because he hadn't left Hunk's house. Or at least Lance damn-well hoped he hadn't left. The bruise on his right cheek had darkened, seeming more profound for his paleness, and he sat a little hunched as though the bruises on his ribs and the slices across his belly still pained him – which they likely did. Hunk had said that he didn't think anything was broken, which was a relief, though he must still be in pain. The stubborn idiot likely hadn't taken the pain killers Hunk had left on his bedside the night before either.

Still, despite his injuries, Lance had half expected Keith to disappear back beneath whatever rock he'd emerged so briefly from before Lance had a chance to return to Hunk's house. An unexpected rush of relief flooded through him that he was still _here_.

At Lance's entrance, both Keith and Hunk glanced towards him. Keith, expectantly now, wore an expression of utter blankness to accompany his unblinking stare, but Hunk greeted him with a smile. "Hey, Lance. You made it from school quickly."

"Well, they don't call me the Speedster for nothing," Lance replied, smiling back at him and automatically slipping into the seat between the both of them.

"I thought they called you Sharpshooter," Keith said mildly. "Or the Tailor, wasn't it?"

"See, this is why people don't ask for your contribution, Red," Lance said.

Keith didn't seem to care that Lance had all but insulted him, but at his obliging silence Lance immediately regretted his words. He didn't really want Keith to stop talking. He hadn't meant to bait him as he had either, but he was still feeling out where he could step without putting his foot in it. It had always been that way with Keith – or with Red, more correctly. At least at the start of Voltron, he would have just as likely up and disappear from the chatroom at something that Lance had said that he thought was harmless as he was to overlook it entirely. True, Red hadn't disappeared for some time, but the possibility still niggled at Lance.

"How was school, Lance?" Hunk said, and Lance had to blink himself out of staring at Keith as he in turn stared at his cooling coffee to drag his attention towards Hunk.

"Hm?"

"School."

Shaking his head, Lance smirked. "Why you always ask me that I'll never quite understand. It's not that exciting."

"He's been asking me about my own school for the last half an hour," Keith murmured, and another touch of relief that he decided to speak swept through Lance. Why he would care was… well, he knew why he cared, but it was a little embarrassing to admit as much.

"See, Keith, Hunk has a bit of a habit of living his school life vicariously through me," Lance said. He smiled at Hunk who only shrugged, uncaring of the accusation. He likely didn't care at all. "You're really not missing out on that much, buddy."

"You don't go to school, then," Keith said, and it was a more of a statement than a question.

Hunk shook his head anyway. "No, not for nearly two years. I dropped out because I wanted to become a baker."

"Really?"

"Really. I love where I work."

To Lance's ears, Keith didn't sound convinced, and he couldn't blame him. Lance knew Hunk loved the Balmeran Bakehouse, but he also knew that his dropping out of school wasn't primarily because he'd wanted to pursue a life of baking. There were many things Hunk enjoyed, and though baking was one of them, school, engineering and hanging out with his friends was another. He might love his work, but it was because of his mom that Hunk had dropped out of school. Lance didn't need to be told in as many words to know the truth of the matter.

He wondered why Hunk had felt obliged to when his gran was always the first to jump to offering to care for his mom. If he'd wanted to continue with school, Lance thought his gran would step up to the party and give him enough time and support to do so. He knew Hunk had said she hadn't wanted to move in years ago, but if he asked again… Lance couldn't imagine Fae would deny anything of him.

Shaking off the sobriety of his thoughts, Lance pressed a knuckled fist into Hunk's shoulder. "And I love where you work too because you always save me the most delicious pies in the world."

"Are you asking me for something?" Hunk said with a widening of his smile.

"You know me too well."

"I should just keep a stack of them in the freezer for you."

"You should," Lance agreed, rising to his feet. "May I, _mi amor_?"

Hunk gestured over his shoulder to the paper bag on the counter behind him and Lance was upon it in an instant. Balmeran Bakehouse pies were to _die_ for.

"Shiro says he's picking up dinner when he heads back from the hospital," Keith said as Lance, dropping back into his seat, almost devoured the paper bag and pie within whole.

"And your point?" Lance asked. Keith's eyebrow twitched only briefly in reply, but Lance took even that slight break in his expression as a victory.

"I said he didn't have to do that," Hunk said with a sigh, knuckling his eye. "I can cook."

"I wouldn't put it past Shiro wanting to do something like that in thanks or whatever," Lance said through a mouthful of pastry.

"Yeah, he seems like the excessively grateful type, doesn't he?"

"He's one of the good ones," Lance agreed. "Upstanding guy and all that."

Hunk nodded. "Yeah, but he's also the sort of person to encourage others to do the right thing. You know, natural born leader and all that."

Abruptly, as though he'd cut himself off, Hunk folded his lips and winced just slightly. He glanced towards Keith who was regarding his mug blankly once more. Lance wished he didn't look downward so much. He had nice eyes.

"I didn't mean it like that, Keith," Hunk said lowly.

"Mean what like what?" Lance asked, pausing in his chewing and glancing between them. "Am I missing something?"

"No," Keith said shortly.

"You're going to have to give me more than that."

"No I'm not."

"Red, I have four sisters and two brothers. I can outlast you in any battle of stubbornness you try to challenge me to."

"I doubt that. And why are you calling me Red when you know my name? We're not on Voltron anymore."

Lance shrugged, licking crumbs off his thumb. "So? I never did end up choosing a nickname for you. I'm just translating virtual to reality as a replacement, I guess."

Keith didn't raise his chin even slightly but his gaze drew towards Lance nonetheless. "You suck at thinking of nicknames."

Lance frowned. "No I don't. I'm fantastic at coming up with them."

"You're literally just using the one that I gave myself."

"Maybe it suits you? Maybe Red just happens to look good on you?"

Keith blinked, glancing briefly at the sleeve of his jacket. "Are you complimenting my fashion sense?"

Smirking, Lance shrugged once more. "So what if I am? There's nothing wrong with –" He abruptly cut himself off. Staring at Keith, Lance slowly lowered the remains of his pie. "You bastard, you just did it again."

"Did what?" Hunk asked, glancing between them.

"You just deflected." Lance pointed an accusing finger at Keith. "You did! How do you do that?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Keith said.

"Fucking…" Lance shook his head and turned towards Hunk. "What did you mean before? About Shiro and all that?"

Hunk shifted awkwardly in his seat, the wood squeaking slightly in protest beneath him. He spared another glance to Keith who could have either been entirely unconcerned or murderously furious for all of the blankness of his expression. Or something else entirely, Lance wasn't sure. He really wished he was, though. It would be nice to know, to be able to get a read on him.

Hunk shifted awkwardly once more as he spoke. "Just that… I don't know. I guess he's a persuasive kind of person."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning…" Another glance at Keith and Hunk's chair squeaked once more. "I don't know, I guess he could just guilt-trip you into doing something that you didn't really want to do, is all I'm saying."

Lance glanced towards Keith in turn and couldn't help but think of earlier that morning. Hunk was right; Shiro had managed to keep Keith around simply by 'guilt-tripping' him into staying. Or was it something else? Maybe it really was just impossible to say no to Shiro. Lance had been fairly certain that, even nearly unable to stand as he was, Keith was determined to leave earlier that day. Shiro had somehow convinced him to do otherwise and, despite his apparently ensuing discomfort in remaining where he was, Keith had staying. How long he would continue to do so was another question, but for now…

"What does that mean?" Lance asked.

"It's nothing," Hunk said, but Lance didn't spare him a glance.

"Keith?"

Keith slowly blinked towards him. A single finger tapped silently on his mug as he replied. "Nothing in particular. I don't see why it's really anything so significant."

"What is?"

Another moment of finger tapping and Keith continued. "He just asked me to call the Tulsons. It wasn't a big deal."

For a moment Lance had no idea what Keith was talking about. The Tulsons? They were…

Then it registered. Keith had mentioned them that morning, however briefly. His foster family. That's who they were. The ones that, even if he hadn't said it, Keith had seemed reluctant to return to. Lance didn't know why, but he could fathom that foster kids not taking to their families wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence. Why _Keith_ wouldn't like them… Lance supposed he could guess that too. Keith didn't seem like a particularly trusting person. If anything, he was very distinctly _un_ trusting. Lance had never been able to quite accept that of Red, and he wasn't prepared to take it from Keith either. Even if Keith did have his issues. Maybe even more because of them.

 _It doesn't matter,_ Lance thought. _He's not going to dodge away from_ me _. We're not on Voltron anymore so it's not like he can just step out of the conversation._

And yet, regardless of how Lance might want Keith to talk more of himself, to trust him, he wasn't foolish enough to push where there was unyielding resistance. Keith's foster family was clearly a sore spot, so he skirted around it. "So they're okay with you not heading home today?" He continued without waiting for a reply. "That's good, then. You can just hang out with us for a while. That's okay, isn't it, Hunk? If we mooch off of you for a bit?"

"'Course it is," Hunk said. "Stay as long as you like."

Keith didn't look comfortable. True, he hadn't looked comfortable since the moment Lance had first seen him, and not just for his injuries, but this was different. Only his eyes moving, he glanced between Lance and Hunk. Before he could say a word, however, Lance spoke once more. "But I know you don't particularly want that, right, Red? The whole mooching thing?"

Keith settled his unblinking gaze upon Lance and damn him, but it really was quite impossible to look away. "Why do you persist in calling me Red?"

"Because it suits you."

"You're so weird."

"I'm the weird one?" Lance grinned as though it was a compliment. "But you're getting me off track again."

"I'm pretty sure you're doing that yourself," Keith said.

"No, I'm not. That's all you. But what I said this morning, we could maybe go somewhere. Tomorrow, if you're feeling okay. Just for a bit so we're not abusing Hunk's hospitality for longer than we need to and all that."

"I really don't mind," Hunk said. "Really, I don't. I kind of like having you all around."

"It's not right, though," Keith said, drawing his gaze towards him. "Forcing your company on someone else isn't right."

"Even if they want it?" Hunk asked.

"Even if… what?"

"Hunk's a lonesome soul," Lance teased, biting into the last of the pie which was, even in his distracted state, one of the best moments of his life to date. "Besides, I'm sure he'd appreciate the distraction from Grandma Fae's nagging."

"She doesn't nag," Hunk said, smiling fondly. "She's just a very strong-willed person."

"Which is the nice person's way of saying she a bossy nag."

"Don't let Gran hear you say that."

"Your gran loves me, Hunk. Don't deny it."

Hunk sighed. "I know. She pretends to be so hard but she really does."

Lance grinned before turning back to Keith. For himself, Keith had watched their exchange with something that might have been vague curiosity in anyone else. To Lance, however, he seemed more wary. He really was as flighty as a skittish horse. "But escaping Fae aside, we could go somewhere."

Keith pinned Lance with his unblinking stare, the barest hint of a frown touching his brow. "What? Why?" A pause and then, "Where?"

"Why? Because you want to get out," Lance explained. "Because you have a weird thing where for some reason you don't like relying on anyone to do things for you, or let you do things like just staying in their house."

Keith blinked. "What?"

"You do, don't deny it. I might look stupid –"

"You do."

"- but I'm actually a very perceptive person, Red, so shut up." Lance brushed aside Keith's interruption for the sarcasm that they were. He'd come to realise as he hadn't on Voltron that his perception of Keith's sarcasm really was a hit and miss with understanding its sincerity. He'd have to come to terms with that and fully intended to. "And as for where – well, I was probably going to go to my papá's shop tomorrow so you can come along."

"Oh, I'll come," Hunk said eagerly, leaning forwards in his seat. "I'm not working tomorrow. Could I bring my mom?"

"Of course you could," Lance said. It wouldn't be the first time Hunk had swung by his papá's shop while he was working there.

"Why would I want to do that?" Keith asked.

In anyone else, the words might have been accusing or derisive. Lance might have even taken offence at the insinuation of them. From Keith, however, it was something else. He seemed to be quite simply asking out of confused curiosity. That much Lance wouldn't have been able to discern from Voltron's chat.

"Because," he said, and reached out instinctively to tug on Keith's hair, "it's a necessity. You're bordering on a mullet here so I think we might need to take some drastic measures."

Keith flinched away from him but, just as he had that morning, it seemed more in surprise that repulsion. Lance was grateful for that. Keith might just not be used to something that Lance found so natural to do. It was something likely resulting from his history at his papá's barbershop but also because he was simply a tactile person. He would like it if Keith became okay with it. He'd grown to quite enjoy playing with people's hair. It felt somehow personal in a casual sort of way.

Raising his hand to his head where Lance had tugged at his hair, Keith's frown grew more pronounced. "There's nothing wrong with my hair."

"It's kind of long, man," Hunk said.

"So?"

"So maybe you should think about getting it cut?"

"Maybe you should think about chopping your fringe off," Keith replied.

Lance snorted, biting back a laugh. "He's got you there, Hunk."

"There's nothing wrong with my fringe," Hunk protested. "Besides, I wear my bandana at work."

"And there's nothing wrong with my hair, either," Keith said, as though that settled it.

 _There really isn't,_ Lance thought but wouldn't ever let himself say, because the thought was perhaps a little too genuine and full-on. _I just kind of want to touch your hair_.

Lance definitely didn't say that part.

"Whatever," he said with a shrug. "Even if you don't, it could be a good place to go to get out, right? Just for a little while? I mean, unless you wanted to go back to… it was the Tulson's, wasn't it?"

He hadn't meant it was a threat, but glance Keith turned upon him was wary nonetheless. He slowly shook his head before muttering a quiet, "No. I don't."

Disregarding his inward cringe, Lance nodded as though it was settled. "Great. Then we have a plan."

"If Shiro agrees," Hunk said.

"Right. If Shiro agrees," Lance said, because he didn't know how it had happened but apparently somewhere along the way Shiro had become their appointed decision-maker. He certainly seemed the most level headed of the lot of them, Lance would admit. Even more than Lance was himself.

They didn't get much more of a chance to talk just the three of them after that. Fae bustled into the room a moment later with Maggie in tow and made about setting the kitchen into bustling activity. Lance wasn't quite sure how he'd been tricked into it, but he found himself abruptly occupied by clearing space from the counters and readying the table for whatever dinner was to come in Shiro's possession alongside Hunk who silently fell into step beneath his grandma's directions. Keith sat silently alongside Maggie because, despite his apparent inclination to wordlessly rise to his feet to help, Fae forbade it of him. Apparently, "The injured will only get in the way", as she said it, which was about as close as Fae would get to admitting she didn't want him to further strain himself.

It was nice, in a strange kind of way. Lance had always liked a full house and felt it comfortable in its familiarity. He'd grown up with almost more people than he could count and it felt… nice. That he was with two people who had somehow become two of his closest friends despite rarely – if ever – seeing them in person made it only better.

Lance was content. Happy, even. He felt only a touch of guilt when Shiro finally arrived and, pausing only briefly to regret that he wouldn't be home for dinner with his family that night, he agreed to stay. He felt guilty for it – because Lance had a _responsibility_ – but his mamá had said to stay with his friend. With his _friends_.

And despite it all, Lance really was happy.


	9. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome back to another week :D  
> Just before I jump into things, I have a short announcement for you all. In deference to the conversation I've recently shared with the lovely teddy bear itsybitsywriter, I was wondering: has anyone ever encountered a chatroom like this Voltron? Does anyone else have an interest in something like that? More importantly, for all of the incredibly intelligent and learned people who can navigate the mystical world of the internet with proficiency (i.e. not me), have you any idea of how to find one? Even better, of how to write a program for one?  
> It's just a curiosity that struck us both, so let me know!

**Chapter 9: Closer**

_12/10 – 11.12pm_

_DiffWizard: Alright, I've had enough of this._

_PrincessOfAltea: Enough of what?_

_DiffWizard: The waiting._

_DiffWizard: I can't stand this._

_DiffWizard: It's driving me insane not knowing what's going on._

_PrincessOfAltea: We can't do anything about it, DiffWizard._

_DiffWizard: Like hell we can't._

_DiffWizard: I'm done. I'm not going to sit around like the wives of old waiting for their soldier husbands to come home._

_DiffWizard: Not me. No way._

_DiffWizard: Not that I don't enjoy you're company, Princess_

_DiffWizard: But it's killing me._

_PrincessOfAltea: What are you going to do? What can you do?_

_DiffWizard: We can go and see them, that's what._

_PrincessOfAltea: What?_

_PrincessOfAltea: How?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Do you know where they are?_

_DiffWizard: No. Not yet. I'll ask Butterfingers._

_PrincessOfAltea: Will he tell you?_

_DiffWizard: He better._

_DiffWizard: Dammit but he better._

_DiffWizard: I'm going to call him._

_PrincessOfAltea: You have his number? I didn't know that._

_PrincessOfAltea: Although, I suppose it makes sense seeing as you met one another at the Festival._

_PrincessOfAltea: Just like Sharpshooter and Butterfingers meeting, I suppose. Everyone is coming to know one another offline, aren't they? Don't you think it's wonderful?_

_PrincessOfAltea: DiffWizard?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Are you calling him now?_

_Sendak has entered the chatroom._

_Sendak: Well, it's quiet around here. Is the chat dying?_

_Sendak: Should've known that would happen. You weren't doing it right._

_PrincessOfAltea: Excuse me, but do you mind leaving please? I would never be actively dismissive of someone who wished to join us, but you've been nothing but critical and offensive each time you've signed on._

_PrincessOfAltea: Please leave._

_Sendak: Hey, listen, you snarky b*tch._

_Sendak: I'm allowed to be here just as much as anyone else._

_PrincessOfAltea: Conflict is not the primary objective of Voltron. Didn't you read the conditions when signing up?_

_Sendak: You actually read those things? You must have been such a nerd when you went through school._

_PrincessOfAltea: Please stop. I would be more than happy to converse with you if you desired, but if you're looking for a fight take it elsewhere. It's both immature and uncalled-for, and I would really prefer that you cease your attempts at provocation so you don't tarnish this chatroom with your words. You've been more than objectionable in your previous correspondences._

_PrincessOfAltea: Please just stop._

_Sendak: Tarnished?_

_Sendak: F*cking hell, you are a posh little princess, aren't you?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Because I use the word tarnished? I hardly think that qualifies me as royalty._

_Sendak; You are. Posh f*cking princess._

_PrincessOfAltea: If you don't stop I'm simply going to cease talking to you._

_Sendak: The silent treatment?_

_Sendak: Oh, very mature. Very big of you._

_Sendak: Does that work for you in reality? Are you as much of a pathetic pacifist there too?_

_Sendak: I bet people just walk all over you, don't they?_

_Sendak: Wait, really?_

_Sendak: Nothing?_

_Sendak: You're really not going to talk?_

_Sendak: Jesus f*cking Christ. Pathetic._

_Sendak: No wonder you've only got six people in this chat._

_Sendak: It's not even worth my time._

_Sendak has signed out of the chatroom._

_DiffWizard: Okay, so I'm back. Sorry about that._

_DiffWizard: And I missed the jerk. Why does he keep coming back?_

_DiffWizard: You still there, Princess?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Yes, I'm here. Just because he was attempting to provoke me doesn't mean I have to lower myself to his level._

_PrincessOfAltea: We're above that._

_DiffWizard: You know, you're really something, Princess._

_DiffWizard: I actually kind of admire you, I think._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you :)_

_DiffWizard: And that admiration just dropped a little with the smiley._

_PrincessOfAltea: Sorry._

_PrincessOfAltea: But what did you find out? Did you manage to contact Butterfingers?_

_DiffWizard: I did!_

_DiffWizard: I actually got onto him, and he said that we could come and see them. He said that they've moved into Shiro's place temporarily, Shiro and Keith, and Lance is basically living there with them when he's not at home or at his dad's work or whatever it is. I get the impression he's on the verge of skipping school._

_PrincessOfAltea: Well, that's not necessarily a good thing._

_DiffWizard: Wait._

_DiffWizard: Sorry, I just realised that my last message probably didn't make a whole lot of sense. Hunk – that's Butterfingers – always forget to use our Voltron._

_DiffWizard: He must be wearing off on me._

_PrincessOfAltea: That's not a problem. I know that Shiro is BlackLion, at least._

_DiffWizard: Yeah. Lance is Sharpshooter and Keith is Red, which is kind of weird, actually._

_PrincessOfAltea: Weird how?_

_DiffWizard: No, nothing. It's kind of stupid. Just a coincidence of names I've only just realised._

_DiffWizard: But Hunk said that we could go and see them at Shiro's place if we wanted to. I think Shiro might be checking out of hospital to move back to his apartment or something._

_DiffWizard: I didn't even know he was IN hospital. I mean, I knew about his arm but I didn't know he was still there._

_DiffWizard: How did I not know that?_

_DiffWizard: Sorry, I meant Butterfingers before. Butterfingers said that._

_PrincessOfAltea: You don't have to correct yourself, DiffWizard. I can remember :)_

_DiffWizard: I'm going to go on and see them on Wednesday after school. Did you want to come?_

_PrincessOfAltea: I would love to but I can't._

_PrincessOfAltea: Much to my regret, that is. I truly wish I could, but I'm unable to at the moment._

_DiffWizard: Oh._

_DiffWizard: Okay._

_DiffWizard: I won't ask why but… I'll keep you posted about what happens, then. I won't just drop off the face of the earth like everyone else seems to have done._

_PrincessOfAltea: Don't worry, I'm not concerned. Besides, BlackLion has been keeping in touch every day. Thank you, though. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness. Voltron seems so quiet with everyone talking a little less._

_DiffWizard: I know. It really does, doesn't it?_

_DiffWizard: But I'm sorry, I've got to go. My mom just walked in. I'll be back in little while, hopefully._

_DiffWizard: Sorry._

_PrincessOfAltea: It's strange how quickly everything has changed. I suppose it's a good thing that everyone is meeting in person, even if the circumstances of how it happened are regrettable. That would be wonderful, wouldn't it? I would so love to meet everyone, but maybe not now. Maybe some other time, in the future perhaps._

_PrincessOfAltea: Oh, I'm sorry, I got a little distracted typing and didn't see you leave._

_PrincessOfAltea: Take your time, DiffWizard. It's no rush._

_PrincessOfAltea: I'll talk to you later._

* * *

It was regretful, but Pidge couldn't meet with the rest of the paladins of Voltron until Wednesday. Wednesday had always been her day of liberty, the afternoon she could do what she wanted without fear of the consequences. Pidge liked to think she was a strong person, that she was independent and that she didn't care what other's thought of her, but when it came to her mom it was different.

Pidge was never good enough for her mom. She couldn't possibly do what she wasn't supposed to, not when her _mom_ might find out. Pidge cringed to think what her mom would think of her meeting with her online friends in real life. It wasn't her dad so much that had enforced the laws about talking to strangers.

But Pidge needed to. She'd always been wary of who she talked to, even those not from online. But Voltron was different. At least to her it was different. Besides, she already knew Hunk and it was Hunk that she was going to meet.

Trotting down the sidewalk, Pidge wove her way through her fellow pedestrians. It was a busy hour of the afternoon, slipping towards evening and rapidly cooling with the mid-October weather. Pidge was silently grateful that they weren't going to wait any later to meet that evening. She didn't have a great amount of confidence in her ability to find Hunk on a good day, let alone Lance and Keith who she hadn't even met. She was supposed to meet them at Penn Station which was going to be crazy at such a time of day, and if they were going travel an hour eastward to meet at Shiro's apartment… it would probably help to find them promptly.

The station itself was predictably abuzz with activity. Echoes of voices resounded off the high glass ceiling and figures wove around Pidge as she made her way towards the excessively large overhead signs depicting the destinations of incoming and outgoing trains. Pidge didn't spend much time at the station in particular. She didn't spend all that much time riding around on trains in general, for that matter. Though she had confidence in her own directional abilities – not to mention she always kept her phone on hand – she still felt a nervous twist wring her gut she paused beneath the signs and began as slow, grazing glance around herself.

In less than a minute, Pidge's phone was in hand. She was just on the verge of sending a message to Hunk when she heard her name bellowed from behind her. "Pidge! Over here!"

Turning, Pidge felt a combined rush of relief and redoubled nervousness flood through her as she caught sight of Hunk standing barely thirty feet away. A tall, broad young man with a face-splitting grin that even from a distance visibly scrunched his nose, he was difficult to miss and not only because he was waving crazily in Pidge's direction. He wore his orange bandana as he'd told Pidge he would, and it visibly served the double function of pull back his bangs and as a token of identification.

It worked at treat, in Pidge's opinion.

She barely got the chance to take a step towards him before before Hunk was jogging towards her, parting the crowd like a charging bull with commuters peeling to the sides of his path instinctively. He all but slid to a stop before her, tipping his beaming smile down upon her like an excitable puppy. "You're here."

"Yes, I know," Pidge said with a smirk. She couldn't quite help herself, not around her Voltron friends. Her social interactions chronically fluctuated between sarcasm and muteness depending upon how comfortable she felt with those she conversed with. Pidge supposed that her instinctive sarcasm was a show of how comfortable she felt with Hunk. "I was the one that walked myself here."

Hunk chuckled, though it really hadn't been all that funny. "I mean it's a good thing, 'cause I checked and the trip to Long Beach takes about an hour from here."

Pidge nodded. She knew because she'd checked too. Checked about a thousand times at that since she'd spoken to Hunk on the phone and then PM-ed Shiro when Hunk had told her where they intended to go. Pidge was a little nervous for that fact, but she didn't voice her unease. Her mom would definitely be horrified. Going to a stranger's house? What was she thinking?

But Pidge didn't voice her mom's fears. She didn't verbalise her concerns to anyone on Voltron, even if the unspoken thoughts did niggle at her incessantly. Besides, Pidge _wanted_ to meet her Voltron friends, and if this was the only way… "Are Lance and Keith here, then?" She asked, glancing around Hunk into the sea of dismissive crowd. "Are they coming with us?"

Hunk nodded. "Yeah, Shiro went over to his place morning while I was still at work, apparently, but those two are with me."

"Those two?" Pidge asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hunk's grin became impish and, bending slightly towards Pidge's ear, he lowered his voice so that it was nearly inaudible through the echoes of ringing conversation around them. "Okay, so I don't want to make any assumptions or anything but –"

"But you're making an assumption with that statement," Pidge pointed out.

Hunk shrugged unabashedly. "Well, I'm just saying. Keith's been staying at my place, but Lance comes over every afternoon, even though he says he's supposed to be at his dad's shop. Sometimes late, it's true, but every. Single. Afternoon."

"So?"

"So – and again, not meaning to make assumptions or anything, but it's really, really obvious what's going on and that Lance at least is totally –" Hunk paused abruptly, straightening. "Okay, now I sound like an idiot."

Pidge fought to smother her smile. "You do?"

"Yeah. It sounds like I'm making a giant leap."

Pidge bit her lip in an attempt to stifle her grin. She could guess at what Hunk had been going to say – she wasn't so oblivious as to be unable to read the amusement and strange enthusiasm of his expression – but she did think it might have been a little assuming. How long had Lance and Keith known one another outside of Voltron? Five days? Could people really learn to like someone in such a short time? Pidge wasn't exactly an expert on relationships, but she thought –

"Hunk, why did you run away from us, buddy?" A voice called from over Hunk's shoulder. "I thought you might have seen a donut stall or something and we'd lost you to a world of sugar again."

Turning, Hunk glanced to the speaker. "That was one time, and to be fair it was The Doughnut Project."

"I'll allow that. They're nearly as good as your Balmeran's." Lance hummed in appreciation as the sound of his voice drew towards them.

Pidge knew it was Lance. She knew because it couldn't possibly be anyone else; his words, his voice unheard in her ears before that moment, sounded just as he did online. Fighting back a returning flood of nervousness, Pidge peeked around Hunk's breadth for the first glimpse of him.

Lance was tall, with the sort of long-limbs that bordered on lankiness, yet despite the awkwardness that would otherwise accompany such an impression he seemed entirely confident with himself. He had a right to be, too; even from the barest glimpse Pidge registered in a purely objective light that he was the kind of eye-catchingly attractive person that caught said eye as much because of his pronounced charisma as his features. From the smile he wore, the almost posturing slouch of his stance and the teasing quirk of his eyebrow, Pidge immediately pegged him as one utterly comfortable with who he was. She envied him that. Pidge had never quite been comfortable with herself. Not ever.

All thoughts of self-pity vanished from her mind, however, as she glanced to the young man who stood at Lance's side. About as tall as Lance was himself, arms folded over his chest and expression quietly subdued, she knew him. All of it, from the overlong hair to the red and white jacket and the fingerless gloves, was familiar, even if the rather nasty bruise on his face was a little different. Pidge's eyes widened, because he was –

"Keith!" She blurted out before she could quite help herself.

All of them – Keith, Hunk and Lance – turned towards her with expressions of varying degrees of surprise. Perhaps the least surprised of them all was Keith. He met Pidge's wide eyes with a blank expression of his own that only slightly softened as he met her gaze. "Hi, Pidge."

Lance glanced between them for a moment before pouting. Or at least Pidge thought he was pouting; she couldn't quite look away from Keith to check because… because this was _Keith_. The boy from her youth centre, the almost-mute boy who she'd thought so briefly of upon learning Red's name but had brushed aside as a mere coincidence.

This was unexpected. Unprepared for. Pidge had grown to love her Voltron friends in a strange and unspoken kind of way, and as much because they were those she could trust. They were the people who knew her outside of her real life and the struggles she fought through. But Keith was… Keith _knew_ her. And it was apparent from the lack of profound surprise upon his face to mirror Pidge's own that he'd already made the connection as to who she was before they'd met.

 _How long has he known?_ She thought with rising horror. _How long has it been that he's known I was the same person as the one online? He didn't say anything on Voltron, and we've talked heaps of times since I came out about my being gender fluid at the centre._

Pidge could only stare, eyes wide. Why hadn't he said anything? What did he think of Pidge? He knew her, both on Voltron and in real life, so _what did she do_? How was she supposed to handle this? How -?

"Well, I feel kind of put-out," Lance said, speaking into Pidge's silent crisis. "Why is Keith the special one out of the two of us? Am I so boring that you'd overlook me, Pidge?"

Lance's words drew Pidge's attention slowly towards him and she saw him pout more pronouncedly this time as he continued. "I have a pretty healthy ego, but this is a bit of a brutal blow."

"A pretty healthy ego?" Keith asked quietly, and _why didn't he sound more freaked out?!_

Hunk reached a hand towards Lance's shoulder, clapping him gently. "Buddy, I think 'healthy' might be short-changing the wellbeing of your ego."

"Which there is absolutely nothing wrong with," Lance said with all the confidence of his earlier smirk. "Nothing at all."

Pidge hardly heard his words. Her attention slid back towards Keith once more, and this time he met her gaze with his dark, unblinking eyes. She'd never paid much attention to Keith at the youth centre, but now she couldn't help but notice, and she could only think…

 _He was at the youth centre too_. _He must have gone for a reason. Libby said his foster family wanted him to come…_

At that thought, Pidge felt her horrified surprise die slightly to be replaced with something else. A touch of understanding, maybe, because Keith – Red, her friend from Voltron – was really someone she'd sort of met in real life. And Keith was a 'troubled' child, just as people sometimes termed her. A youth in need of help, as the people at the centre had called them. Red was a foster kid, had issues of his own, and Pidge hadn't known. She hadn't known any of that on Voltron.

Maybe he did think less of her after she'd come out at the youth centre. Maybe he'd continued to think less of her each time they'd spoken on Voltron. And yet, looking up at Keith as he silently regarded her, Pidge couldn't imagine it. Red had always been a bluntly direct person; even if he kept his personal life hidden, that much Pidge had been able to discern, and she considered it guileless of him. He'd never acted any differently towards her, either on Voltron or at the centre, and when Pidge thought back to it, to how Red had been one of the first people she'd told about herself and how he'd been nothing if not accepting of her, she felt guilty for her thoughts.

Maybe her fears, as incessant even then as they were, were unfounded? This was Red, after all. She'd known him for months. Maybe he didn't hate her, and maybe he wasn't disgusted. Maybe, just maybe and regardless of how much of an impossibility it seemed for _any_ one to think so, he didn't consider her any differently to how he had before he'd known.

Lance had still been talking, Pidge realised as her own silent revelation dawned upon her under Keith's staring yet somehow non-confronting attention. Lance talked almost without pause for breath, too, which, as Pidge drew her attention back towards him, she recognised as being starkly reminiscent to his online character. Some things clearly didn't change between the real world and the virtual. Pidge would have to remember that, and maybe not just for Lance, either.

"… think I've got a right to be pretty confident, if I do say myself." He was actually regarding his fingernails pompously, eyebrow quirked once more. "It must be the ruff-and-tumble impression you're trying to emulate, Red. That must be it."

 _Red?_ Pidge thought, glancing back towards Keith. _Does he like to be called Red in real life too?_ At the same time, she really saw the bruise on Keith's cheek, mottled into purples and yellows reminiscent of a macabre nebula, and remembered that he'd been dragged through the ringer but days before. Pidge might not know what had happened exactly, but the evidence for whatever it was stood right before her. She regretted her momentary panic all over again; making sure Red was alright was one of the main reasons she'd wanted to meet him.

"Are you alright, Keith?" Pidge found herself asking, and all eyes turned towards her once more.

"Huh," Hunk said. "Maybe you're right, Lance. Maybe you'll have some competition on the horizon."

"What?" Lance asked. "Competition?"

Hunk didn't get the chance to reply to him before Keith spoke in calmly quiet words. "I'm fine," he said. "Thanks, Pidge." Then he paused and, with the bluntness yet not-quite tactlessness he'd shown on Voltron, said, "What pronouns would you prefer today, by the way? Just so we know."

Pidge blinked, starting slightly. She'd never had anyone ask her that before. Not even on Voltron, because she'd always changed her pseudonym depending upon what gender she woke up as that day. Keith's question was entirely unprecedented and an unexpected tightness squeezed her chest, clogging in her throat.

No one had ever asked her that before. No one had cared to, or had even known to ask. Even Matt had always simply waited to be told.

"Thanks," she found herself croaking out before speaking anything else. Her feeble reply was nearly lost in the echoes of voices swirling around them. "I, um… she. She and her." A pause, and then again, "Thanks."

Keith shrugged. "No problem."

Pidge could only stare at him. Again. She didn't know Keith – or Red – particularly well, and knew next to nothing about him but for the fact that she'd abruptly realised he was a foster kid. Yet even so, they'd always spoken with like-mindedness online. He was smart and a natural born sceptic just like she was. Pidge liked that about him, liked it just as much as she liked baiting and bantering with Sharpshooter, or as much as she took support from Hunk constant compassion, companionship from the Princess, and almost idolised BlackLion.

Pidge was smart. She knew she was smart, logical, and she strove to think rationally. She had to remind herself of that sometimes, yet when she did, just as in that moment, she found she was reprimanding herself. Out of the both of them, the only one who seemed to be struggling with the situation was Pidge herself. Keith – or Red, or however he liked to be called – didn't have a problem with her. He didn't have a problem at all.

Maybe she was the only one with the problem. Surely she was, if she'd barely even recalled that he'd been on the doorstep hospital but days before.

Lance's voice once more interrupted her thoughts. "I'm missing something here. I think I'm missing something."

Glancing his direction once more, Pidge caught him shifting a suspicious gaze between Keith and herself with a frown upon his brow before settling his attention upon Keith. "What am I missing, Red?"

Despite accepting it herself, Pidge wasn't entirely sure she wanted to reveal how she and Keith knew one another, or that they'd known on another before now. She trusted the other paladins of Voltron perhaps more than she should for people she'd barely met, but she wasn't quite ready for that. Not yet.

Instead, she asked, "Why do you call him that? Do you prefer to be called Red, Keith?"

"No," Keith said.

"Yes," Lance said at the same time. When Keith glanced towards him, he only raised a shoulder. "What? Just like you said, you were the one who came up with the nickname."

Shaking his head, Keith turned back to Pidge, to Hunk right beside her who was regarding Lance with a smirk. Pidge didn't want to know what was passing through his mind at that moment. "Do you think we should go?" She said instead. "Weren't we supposed to meet Black –Shiro? In, like, an hour?"

She stumbled slightly over Shiro's name, for it felt a little strange to refer to him as such without meeting him in person first, but no one seemed to care. Hunk shook himself from his smirking glance between Keith and Lance, nodded, and jerked a thumb further into the station. "Yeah, we should probably go. A quick headcount?"

"Is that really necessary?" Pidge asked. "There's only four of us."

"Hey, and there's our DiffWitch," Lance exclaimed overloudly, though it blessedly didn't draw eyes in the already crowded station. "I wondered for a moment if you were an imposter."

"Do you mind not saying that name aloud," she said with a slight frown that didn't really carry any heat. She glanced towards Keith. "I pity you having to put up with him."

Keith shrugged as he turned and started to lead them further into the station. "You get used to it, I guess."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Lance said, striding up to fall into step alongside him. "I sense an underlying meaning beneath your words."

"You're imagining things."

"No I'm not."

"Of course you are. You have an overactive imagination, Lance."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"No…"

"It is. It's sarcasm, isn't it?"

Falling into step alongside Hunk, Pidge shook her head as she followed in Keith and Lance's wake. It was almost unfathomable to imagine that the two of them hadn't known each other a week ago. Or – no, Pidge had to correct herself. That was what she wasn't quite reconciling. They _had_ known each other, just as she had known them too. They'd been friends even before they'd met.

At that thought, at finally having it settle just a little more firmly in her mind, Pidge eased just a little. She didn't feel quite so nervous when she considered it in such a light. These were her friends. They'd been her friends for months. It hardly mattered that she hadn't met them in person before. They really _were_ her friends.

"You can't tell me it's not obvious."

Pidge glanced up at Hunk – did he have to be so damnably taller than her? – and cocked her head. "What?"

Hunk gestured with a big hand towards where Keith and Lance walked barely a handful of steps before them. He kept his voice at a stage whisper. "Those two. It's obvious, isn't it?"

"I don't really know what you're talking about. What's obvious?"

Hunk's expression grew briefly pained. "Come on, Pidge. Surely I'm not the only one who sees it, am I? Really?"

Pidge, feigning ignorance gave a slow shrug before edging into Hunk slightly to avoid a passer-by. She'd never quite liked the casual contact with strangers in busy areas. "I think you're probably imagining things, Hunk. Do you have a habit of projecting assumptions onto your friends? An overactive imagination like Lance, perhaps?"

Hunk grumbled to himself, clearly indignant, and biting back a smile Pidge conceded to letting him off the hook. "Thanks for getting back me about today, by the way. It was killing me not knowing what was going on."

"And not meeting everyone, I'll bet," Hunk said, smiling down at her with understanding. His exasperation had abruptly vanished.

Pidge nodded. "Yeah. It definitely made me feel a little out of the loop with all of you guys having met and me just…"

"Yeah, I get it. Or, well…" Hunk frowned slightly, thoughtfully. "I guess I really don't."

"Yes, because you've always been one of the ones to meet up with everyone," Pidge said with a grin. "You lucky bastard."

Hunk laughed. "It's not my fault. It just happens. With Lance, then you, then Keith and Shiro..."

"You're more cunning than people give you credit for, Hunk," Pidge said with false solemnity. She clicked her tongue as she shook her head. "Making those around you jealous by getting in first."

"That wasn't my intention!" Hunk exclaimed with more laughter than indignation. "I swear, I never really even thought about meeting anyone in person. I don't usually have the time for that sort of thing."

Pidge nodded her understanding. "Your mom?"

"Yeah. My mom."

"She isn't with us today?"

"You noticed?" Hunk teased.

Pidge jabbed an elbow into his side that Hunk didn't even seem to feel. "Shut up."

Hunk laughed again, and it was impossible to even feign disgruntlement when he did. Except that it died into thoughtful contemplation a moment later. "No, she's at home. She's fine but she's… I asked my gran if she would mind, which I feel horribly guilty for, but –"

"- you shouldn't," Pidge interrupted. "You're allowed to go out sometimes, you know. You're allowed to see your friends."

"Yeah, yeah," Hunk said with a visible attempt at shrugging off his brief melancholy. He reached one on his beefy hands to Pidge's head and – horrifyingly – scuffed what she knew was her already untameable hair. "Of course. I love hanging out with you guys."

"Don't make a habit of doing that," Pidge warned, swatting his hand away.

Hunk laughed again and, in spite of herself, Pidge found she smiled in response. That moment, as she was walking through the busyness of Penn Station alongside her friends, was when she really realised it. Just because she was only meeting them for the first time in real life that didn't make them any less of her fast friends. If anything… if anything, it made them something _more_. Pidge didn't have friends. Not really and not in the real world. She'd never really wanted them when she had her computers and those she spoke to on them.

But this. This was nice.

They boarded the LIRR line amidst a horde of other commuters, and Pidge found herself settling amongst her friends with little difference to how they acted on Voltron. Lance was still as mouthy as ever, speaking with just the same confidence as he did as Sharpshooter and loud enough to be heard over the rest of the noise in their carriage. He seemed to be the director of the conversation and made it his proclaimed duty to affiliate himself with Pidge as he hadn't had the chance to at the station.

Hunk was the same sweetheart that he'd been as Butterfingers, just as he'd been when she'd met him at the festival. He seemed to be nothing if not keeping an eye out for Pidge and replying to Lance's questions when they grew a little too rapid-fire – and intrusive – for Pidge's comfort. She would have to thank him for that later.

And Keith. Keith was just as selectively vocal as he was on Voltron, and Pidge considered that she would always read the red script of his written words in the largely flat and bluntly direct tone he unshakeably spoke in thenceforth. It was almost funny how reminiscent of his virtual personality his words were. All of their words, for that matter. Keith _was_ Red, just as Lance was Sharpshooter and Hunk was Butterfingers. Pidge didn't know why she hadn't realised something so obvious the second she'd met them because it was starkly apparent to her after speaking to them for barely a handful of minutes.

It was easy. So easy. Pidge had never had friends like that before, and it didn't matter that they were all at least two years older than she was. It didn't matter at all.

The train trip went remarkably quickly in the midst of their conversation, and Pidge found herself speaking more than she had to anyone in a long time. She didn't usually speak to real people. Pidge had thought thought she'd be out of practice, but it felt no different to when she spoke on Voltron. That was nice, too. Easy.

When they drew into Long Beach Station, their carriage markedly less full than it had been, it was to alight onto the platform with a clutch of other passengers. Pidge peered around herself curiously, glancing along the length of the simplistic platform that was so different to those in New York City that it wasn't difficult to discern that they were similarly far removed from the inner city. Pidge didn't travel much. She'd barely been out of New York City a handful of times in her entire life, and most of those times she couldn't even remember.

Following in Lance and Keith's wake and alongside Hunk once more, for it seemed to be their unspoken order of positioning, they passed through the arching passage at the front of the station and into the afternoon glow. The sun had lowered noticeably since Pidge had first stepped into Penn Station, and she'd barely noticed the gradually dying light through the train carriage windows as they'd chugged towards Long Island Beach.

It was noticeable now, however, and Pidge was once grateful that they hadn't left it any later than they had. Her mom wouldn't be home until after ten o'clock that night and rarely made it back before eleven, but she could never be too careful. Not with her mom.

"Shiro's meeting us here, then?" Pidge asked, pausing in step and allowing the rest of the alighted passengers to flow from the station and towards the parking lot to the left, the right, and the street beyond. Hunk paused at her side, but it was Lance – predictably, because Pidge had decided he was the mouthpiece of their group – who replied.

"Yeah, and then we're walking to his place," Lance said. "I'm actually really keen, 'cause I haven't been yet and knowing it's Shiro's place it would be pretty upstanding, you know? He's the kind of guy who – hey, where are you going?"

Lance cut himself off as Keith, barely pausing alongside Pidge as Hunk and Lance did, picked up his step once more and continued at a stride towards the left parking lot. Lance, apparently finding being left behind by Keith unacceptable, immediately started after him. Pidge didn't need to wait long to see where they were headed and, as Hunk trailed behind them, stared mutely at the pseudo-named BlackLion.

Shiro was the mature one of the paladins. Alongside the Princess, it was apparent to everyone, not just to Pidge, that he kept them all in line. He would diffuse arguments when they drifted from playful banter and verbal tussles towards something more disgruntled. Pidge wouldn't deny that she was one of the primary people who contributed in just those tussles, more often than not baiting Sharpshooter into an argument. Intentionally, too, which was different to how she perceived Red as doing it. Red didn't seem to have much of a head for provocative comments and instead messaged them in ignorance.

Shiro was different. Even Hunk could get drawn into their arguments at times, though never particularly aggressively. Shiro never resorted to that and more often than not he smothered any potential arguments before they could arise. And Pidge wasn't annoyed in the slightest. Surprisingly, she didn't find it as irritating to have her potential and often needed verbal warfare deflected before it could reach fruition.

It was all because it came from Shiro. Because Shiro was a kind, compassionate, upstanding person who actually cared about them all and seemed to want the best for them and their chatroom. For whatever reason, Pidge got the impression that he didn't put a whole amount of stock in himself, that he didn't think he was anything special, but even without meeting him Pidge had known the truth of the matter. Not many people were as profoundly Good as Shiro clearly was.

More than that, he was in the army. Pidge had always had a soft spot for soldiers after Matt had enlisted. Before that, even, because Matt had always been an avid supporter of the armed forces. If for nothing else, Pidge admired Shiro for his service.

When she saw him, Pidge was rendered speechless for the second time that afternoon, and not because he was anything vastly aside from her expectations. If anything, Shiro seemed to embody everything that Pidge could think of him. He was older than the rest of them, though not by as much as Pidge had hitherto assumed, and taller too, as was starkly apparent when they drew up alongside him. Pidge had never felt more diminutive in her life, except for whatever reason it didn't feel bad simply because Shiro was smiling.

It was a noticeable and meaningful smile, too. Despite the scar across the bridge of his nose, despite a flare of whiteness in his fringe and the thinness of his cheeks that bespoke an unshakeable weariness, he had a nice face and his smile was welcoming. Kind. As open and welcoming as Pidge would have expected of BlackLion. Pidge hardly saw his empty sleeve. It seemed negligible when comparison to what Shiro was.

He was speaking to Keith as they approached, and from Pidge's perspective there was something in Keith's expression that bespoke distinct fondness. No, perhaps fondness wasn't quite the right word, but there was definitely something there. It was almost like –

"At first, I didn't think Keith really liked Shiro," Hunk all but whispered into Pidge's ear, leaning down towards her he slowed in step. "He kind of forcibly dragged Keith out of his comfort zone. It's the only reason he's stayed at my place for the last few days, I'd bet."

"Shiro did?" Pidge whispered back, slowing in turn. She couldn't really imagine Shiro forcing anyone, but then… No. She suspected he wouldn't force but would instead turn his gentle requests upon the subject of his attention. He nudge softly yet firmly and with something almost like a pleading order that somehow wasn't quite an order, and Keith would do what he was told. Pidge could see it now. She most certainly could.

Hunk nodded fervently in reply, slowing to a stop as Lance drew up next to Keith and appeared to leap headfirst into their conversation with audible gusto. "Yeah. It was pretty impressive, actually, according to Lance. But since then Keith has come around a bit, I think. He doesn't say anything –"

"Does Keith ever say all that much?" Pidge muttered.

Hunk grinned. "Not unless Lance baits him. But yeah, Keith likes Shiro now I think. I've never had an older brother or anything before, but I kind of see it like that for him, if that makes sense."

Glancing towards them, Pidge could definitely see that. She'd never seen the way she herself looked at Matt, but she recognised the expression that just barely touched Keith's otherwise blank face. His intent and unblinking stare, the way he looked up at Shiro as though he was attending to every quiet word that Shiro spoke and filing it away as lore. Pidge knew that feeling very well.

"So Shiro's sort of the older brother type of person, which would make Lance…"

Pidge glanced once more towards Hunk as he trailed off expectantly. She regarded him for a moment with as much blankness as she could muster. "What, exactly?"

Hunk huffed a sigh. "Oh, come on, Pidge, it's obvious, isn't it? Surely I'm not the only one who sees it."

"Do you have a matchmaking fetish by any chance, Hunk?"

Hunk didn't get a chance to defend himself for a moment later Shiro was calling them. "Pidge. Hunk. It's great to see you both."

 _Hell, he even sound like how I'd imagine him to,_ Pidge thought with a mental shake of her head. Then, picking up her feet, she crossed the last of the distance between them and stopped at Shiro's side. For whatever reason, whether it was that she'd already met Lance and Keith that day and so the nervousness had worn itself out or something else, she didn't feel uneasy approaching him. Certainly not when he smiled down at her so warmly.

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Pidge," he said. "I didn't know you wore glasses."

"Pidge raised her hands automatically to her face. "I – yes, I do."

"Obviously, unless it's just a ruse," Lance said with an amused snort.

"They really suit you," Shiro said. "I used to have to wear glasses before I got contacts and I can tell you, I don't look half as well in them."

"Really?" Was the communal reply to varying degrees of exclamation.

Shiro's smile widened. "Is it that surprising?"

"No," Keith said.

"I couldn't see you with glasses at all," Lance said at the same time.

"Not that I think they'd look bad," Hunk said, raising a placating hand. "Just that it's unexpected."

Shiro met each of their eyes when they spoke before shrugging. "It's nothing exceptional. Merely an aside and a momentary distraction from the topic at hand." He gestured to them all with a sweep of his arm. "Shall we head on back to my apartment? If that's okay with you all. I just thought, seeing as it was heading towards evening, it might be more appropriate circumstances for proper introductions."

Surprisingly, it was Pidge Shiro turned to. It took her a moment to deduce why he'd done it and she felt a horribly embarrassing warmth rise up her neck that she hoped didn't show. Her fellow paladins had all teased her in their own ways about her 'stranger danger' awareness, and though Pidge stuck firmly to her beliefs she didn't want to be known as _that_ person. Self-preservation was an attribute she stood firmly in agreement with, but these were her friends. They _were_ , even if it was the first time she'd met them.

Nodding with as much casualness as she could assume, Pidge offered a smile to match Shiro's. "Yeah, that's fine."

"Great!" Lance announced. "I'm keen to see this apartment we've all heard so much about, Shiro. Lead onwards!"

They started down a road that Pidge saw was called Park Avenue, and Pidge found herself in step between Shiro and Hunk. They fell into easy conversation, almost ridiculously easy considering Pidge hardly thought of herself as a conversationalist. The sound of the occasional car passing by was all but unnoticed, as negligible as the distant tang of seawater to the air.

"I'm sorry you had to travel out so far to come and see me," Shiro was saying, clearly sincerely apologetic. "I know it's quite a trek."

"Shiro, you're apartment's out here," Keith said quietly and not quite chidingly. "It's hardly your fault."

"Yeah, and we don't really mind," Lance added. "It's sort of like a road trip."

"An hour-long road trip? By train?"

"There are different kinds of road trips."

"Still, I'm sorry," Shiro said, sliding his own words into the midst of their exchange seamlessly. "Lance, I know you said you wanted to help out with your father's shop a little more this week, and Hunk, you've got enough on your plate."

Lance and Hunk brushed aside his words with a waved hand and a shrug respectively. "I could just drive sometime if I give my mamá and papá enough notice," Lance said.

"I thought you didn't like using parent's car," Keith said.

Lance pursed his lips. "Not really if I don't have to, but – wait, when did I tell you that?"

"You didn't. It was pretty obvious."

"It was?"

Keith blinked, and as Pidge glanced towards him she was afforded the understanding that Keith was indeed something of a guileless person. "Of course. Why would I lie about that?"

Definitely guileless.

"I could ask my brother to drive us if he's around," Pidge offered, breaking into the exchange. She'd noticed that Lance – and seemingly as a by-product Keith – seemed to dominate the conversation much of the time. For someone who appeared relatively subdued, Keith had spoken quite a lot that afternoon. Pidge would be damned if she didn't get her two cents in.

"Your brother?" Hunk said as all attention swung towards her. Pidge didn't necessarily like being the centre of such, but it wasn't so bad when it was from her Voltron friends. "Oh yeah, I remember you said your brother was back in town for a bit."

"Where was he, Pidge?" Lance asked. "You never told us."

"Didn't I?" Pidge asked casually, even knowing the truth of Lance's statement as she did. "Huh. I thought I had."

To Pidge, Matt was something of a private topic. Not because she was ashamed of him – far from it, in fact – but because he was precious enough that she didn't want to share him. Or at least she hadn't until that moment. It felt different meeting her fellow paladins in person. They felt more real, more like actual people with real stories to them, real lives that Pidge knew so little about. She found herself tentatively wanting to know just what those lives entailed as much as she felt the unfamiliar urge to speak of her own life. Such a thing had never really happened to her before.

"You've mentioned him a couple of times," Keith said quietly.

"I got the impression you were very fond of him," Shiro added.

Pidge found herself nodding. "I am. He's my – I mean, he's pretty incredible. He reminds me a bit of you, actually, Shiro?"

"Is that so?" Shiro said with a gentle smile. "I'd hardly warrant the term 'incredible', however. What's he like?"

 _There it is again_ , Pidge thought to herself. Not for the first time, Shiro seemed to self-deprecating. Not in an overt way, seeming to discredit himself more joking than sincerely, but it was apparent to her. Did he even realise he did it?

Brushing aside the thought, Pidge smiled. "He's pretty much the best person in the world. He's quite a few of years older than me but he never treats me like a little kid. He's always a lot of fun to be around and he's probably one of the few people in the world that really gets me. He was," she paused for a moment and had to remind herself that _these_ people, her friends, all knew about her. "He was the first person who found out I was gender fluid."

Each of them nodded their understanding, and though Pidge waited to behold any comment, any kind of criticism or derision that they'd managed to hide behind the virtual wall of Voltron, none arose. She hadn't realised she'd actually been holding her breath until Shiro spoke. "You sound like you're very close."

Pidge dropped her eyes to her feet, feeling her neck flush slightly once more. "Yeah, you could say that. It's just a shame he lives quite far away sometimes."

"Where?" Hunk asked. "You never did tell us."

"He's in the army. He only finished his Comms specialist training last year and got deployed for the first time at the beginning of the year."

"Whoa, seriously?" Hunk said. "So your brother and Matt, they're both –?"

"In the army," Keith finished for him. "Yes, such would be apparent."

"That's awesome," Hunk breathed, and Pidge found she liked him just a little more than she already did at that moment. She'd always appreciated mutual admiration.

"I know," she said. "It kind of gives me something to aspire to."

"You want to enlist in the army?" Lance asked. Incredulity audibly touched his tone. "You do?"

Pidge leant forwards to peer around Shiro and pin Lance with a frown. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Lance shrugged. "I just wouldn't see you as the athletic type, and the army's pretty rigorous."

Pidge fell silent. She couldn't exactly dispute that assessment. Shiro spoke for her, however. "Fitness is only one component of it and can always be worked upon. I think it's the dedication, the commitment to your cause, that's really important."

Pidge glanced up towards him and couldn't help but smile gratefully. He returned her smile just as warmly.

"I always thought joining the army would be quite appealing," Keith murmured, barely audibly.

"What?" Lance all but yelped, and Pidge's glance in his direction saw him whip his gaze towards him. "You two?"

"Yeah, and I was actually thinking of maybe enlisting in the hopes of being a chef," Hunk said from Pidge's other side, though when she glanced towards him in turn he was very visibly holding back a smile.

"Seriously?" Lance exclaimed, his voice rising in both pitch and volume. "Are you pulling my leg, you guys?"

"No," Keith said at the same moment that Hunk snorted, "Yes." They dissolved into smiles and laughter respectively a moment later.

The rest of the walk back to Shiro's apartment, some twenty minutes or so from the station to his apology that, "We could have caught a bus but it takes about as long," was just as eventful in its chatter. Pidge had never been in a situation like that before, where she didn't hold out hopes of finding an out to the conversation and the nearest escape route from the social encounter. Or at least not before she'd first spoken to Hunk. Pidge hadn't realised what she'd been missing. Were all friends like that with one another?

When they drew to a stop it was barely a street back from the beachside. A row of seven storey apartments, sitting back from the road itself in their own drive that curved into a private roundabout cul-de-sac of sorts, stood before them. Pidge, as had almost become familiar that afternoon, could only stare. The apartments themselves, of pale brick and wide windows, were sleek and breathed of expense as much did their proximity to the beach.

Apparently Pidge wasn't the only one to think it either, for the admittedly easily awed Hunk sighed his admiration. "Whoa. This's got to be pretty expensive, Shiro. You seriously live here?" He apparently heard his own words for a second after he'd spoken them for he cringed slightly. "Sorry. Rude."

Shiro only shook his head before starting down the cobbled driveway. "It's alright, you're allowed to ask. But yes, they're pretty expensive."

"Are you loaded, man?" Lance asked, his tone slightly hushed as he followed after Shiro. "Seriously? Because you're not a pompous assholes at all."

"So all people with money are supposed to be pompous?" Keith asked, frowning not so much accusingly as with actual curiosity.

"I'm just saying," Lance replied.

"Why? Have you met many rich people?"

"Do I look like I've met many rich people?"

"What? What's that supposed to mean, exactly?"

Pidge couldn't help but snort and hastened to pick up her step as Shiro started towards one of the buildings, disappearing into the relative shade of the awning hanging over the front door. She couldn't help but spare a glance and a pointedly raised eyebrow towards Hunk. That was the sort of relationship he was insinuating between Lance and Keith? Really?

Filing after Shiro, Pidge's amusement faded as soon as she stepped inside the building. It was dark, evening rapidly settling upon them, but not enough to detract from the visible richness of hallways that Pidge stepped into. And that was just the _hallway_. Polished wooden floors, a stairwell of wide-steps and ornate bannister situated alongside an elevator with metal doors buffed so absolutely that when they stepped before them Pidge could see her reflection almost as well as she would be able to in a mirror. As it pinged opened, she had to shake her head at the carpeted interior with actual mirrors and what looked almost like genuine wooden panelling. Pidge could recognise the effect of wealth when she saw it, both her mom and dad raking their respective hauls through their jobs, but an apartment in Long Island Beach that looked like _this_? Hunk was right in his opinion. Very much so, it would seem.

"Um… I think I might take the stairs," Lance said from behind her.

Shiro, leading into the elevator, paused and glanced towards him. "Sorry? Why's that?"

A glance towards Lance found his visibly uneasy. Pidge was surprised at that; he might feign incredulity, but she hadn't thought it possible for Lance to actually be intimidated. Apparently she'd been wrong. "My shoes are filthy, man. I don't want to dirty the carpet or whatever." Then he turned towards the stairs and was starting up them before Pidge could point out that actually, his shoes weren't that dirty at all.

"I'll go with him," Keith said, starting after Lance. "Make sure he doesn't get lost or whatever."

"It's number thirty-three," Shiro called after him. "And be careful with your ankle, Keith,"

"I will," Keith called back as he disappeared up the steps, footsteps rapidly fading.

"Did I make them uncomfortable?" Shiro asked, filing into the elevator alongside Pidge and Hunk.

Hunk shrugged. "Not Keith so much I don't think, but Lance will get over it if he is. Don't sweat it."

Shiro didn't appear entirely reassured. He seemed to be very much disheartened by the possibility, in fact. Pidge couldn't help but want to comfort him, though she was hardly the comforting sort of person. Matt had always been better at that than she was. If she'd chosen one of her Voltron friends to speak reassuringly, it would have been Shiro, too. Or the Princess, perhaps, but the Princess…

"He'll work it out himself," she agreed with Hunk, and couldn't help but cringe internally at how careless her words sounded. Shiro smiled at both she and Hunk gratefully, however, so it couldn't have been so disastrous. Or maybe Shiro was just being the nice person she knew he was.

They waited outside of Shiro's door for Keith and Lance's arrival, and Pidge's offhanded reassurance proved justified for in his brief trip up the stairs Lance appeared to have fortified himself. Maybe he'd simply needed a moment alone– or Keith, as it was – to collect himself. They drew alongside them and at a glance from Shiro, followed after him as he opened the door.

It was nice, Shiro's apartment. Really nice, the rooms open and pale, even before the lights were flicked into illumination. Pidge followed Shiro down a wide hallway that trickled into a living room that was more a combined dining-room kitchen than a separate room itself. The same polished wooden floorboards stretched through each room, branching off into what a curious poking of Pidge's head into each doorway proved to be a almost blindingly white bathroom, a bedroom, and something that might have been a small study of sorts but was so empty of anything but a desk that it hardly warranted the term. As an apartment for one person it was, in Pidge's opinion, just a little bit huge.

"This is… really nice," Hunk said from behind her as they trailed after Shiro into the living room.

"You really are loaded," Lance said in what sounded like agreement. Not resentful, mind, which Pidge thought did him credit considering his previous comment about rich people.

Shiro turned towards them with a smile. "Thanks. I didn't ever really spend a whole lot of time here before I… my accident, but I suppose it's homely enough."

Homely wasn't exactly the word Pidge would have used to describe it. Open, spacious, and sleekly minimalistic from the low couches to the sharp planes of what looked like granite bench tops in the kitchen. Pidge decided that if she ever lived alone when she was older she'd want an apartment just like this.

"Why not?" She found herself asking.

Shiro turned slowly in place as though surveying the room. "I guess it always just feels a little too big for me," he murmured.

Pidge could understand that, given that the apartment really was quite big, but she didn't really think that was what Shiro was referring to. He shrugged aside his thoughtfulness a moment later, however, and turned back towards their small party. "Make yourselves comfortable, though. Can I get anyone a drink?"

They settled themselves easily enough around the living room after an initial moment of awkwardness – and Lance's whispered "I can't sit on _actual_ leather couches" and Keith's blatant reply of "Why not?" – and it was comfortable. Easy, just as Pidge had found it the entire afternoon. She sincerely regretted that she hadn't taken steps to meeting her all sooner.

"It's a shame the Princess can't be here," she found herself saying as Shiro returned with a tray drinks for everyone. It wasn't cold in the apartment but the night itself was cool enough that the offered cocoa was appreciated. "It would be nice if we all got together."

Hums of agreement sounded around the room. "None of us have ever met her, have we?" Hunk asked.

"Not through lack of trying," Lance said with a smirk. "I'm not one to brag –"

"Really?" Pidge couldn't help but ask.

"- but I'm kind of a ladies man," Lance continued, ignoring her. "She'd probably be all over me if we met."

"Do you really think that?" Keith asked from the cushion at his side, pausing in the act of raising his mug to his lips. "That you're so attractive to women? What makes you think so well of yourself?"

Pidge couldn't help but snort into her own mug at the expression Lance's face sagged into. He blinked rapidly before stuttering out a reply. "A-are you insulting me?"

Keith tipped his head slightly, thoughtfully, and Pidge's silent congratulations of his words faded. No, surely he wasn't… "No? It was a serious question."

Lance shook his head. "How can you ask questions like that?"

"Like what?"

"So direct like that. Don't you feel embarrassed?"

Keith shook his head slowly. "Why would I feel embarrassed?"

Pidge stifled a laugh into her mug once more but it managed to draw Keith's and Lance's combined attention this time. She shook her own head. "I like you, Keith. Or is it Red that we're supposed to call you? I never asked."

"No, only I call him that," Lance said before anyone else could reply.

"Are you forbidding other people from doing it?" Hunk asked curiously, lips twitching slightly.

Lance pouted. "No. I'm just saying that no one else does." For all his words, Pidge thought they sounded almost territorial. Which was ridiculous, but apparently she wasn't the only one who thought so for the way Hunk poked her with an unobtrusive toe.

"Is that a common thing, then?" Shiro asked, glancing around the circle of their little group. The lounge suite was more than large enough for them all. "To call one another by your online name? That's normal?"

Pidge shook her head. "No. Not at all, really. Or at least… I mean, most people that I know of don't really see one another offline. Mostly because they live so far apart and all, but yeah." _Or because they don't like talking to people_ _in real life_.

"Do you spend a lot of time talking online?"

Shrugging, Pidge shook her head once more. "No more than the next person, I don't think," she said, which wasn't entirely true but she didn't like to think about just how many forums and chatrooms she was a part of. Besides, it felt somehow disloyal to admit as much to her Voltron friends. Unfaithful, even.

"Even you haven't met the Princess then, Shiro?" Hunk asked. "You seem to be the closest out of all of us to her. I think she likes you."

"Rude!" Lance said, frowning at Hunk, though he disregarded his discontent a moment later. "But seriously, have you? Do you know her name?"

Shiro shook his head. "No, I haven't met her. I'd like to, but maybe she's just not ready for that just yet. Maybe in the future. And no, Lance, I don't know her name."

"Dammit," Lance muttered.

"She'd probably tell you if she wanted you to know," Keith said, peering absently into his mug.

"Which she clearly doesn't," Pidge couldn't help but add.

Lance frowned at her, leaning back in his seat and hooking an ankle up onto his knee. "I resent that, Pidge. You can be a right bitch sometimes."

"Lance," Shiro said warningly.

Pidge spoke over him. "Why, thank you. I take that as a compliment."

Lance shook his head. "You shouldn't."

"And yet I do."

"Well that's hardly any fun. How do people insult you then?"

"They try and fail. Clearly."

"That's one way to go about it," Hunk said. "Un-insult-able."

"I'm fairly certain that's not a word," Keith said dubiously.

"I'm fairly certain you'd be right," Lance agreed. "You're a smart 'un, you are, Red."

"Please don't mock me by referring to my intelligence in a derogatory manner."

"I'm not mocking! I'm being entirely sincere!"

Pidge couldn't help but laugh. It felt almost exactly the way it did on Voltron – Lance and Pidge arguing good-naturedly, Keith stating something with such practical directness that it was difficult to discern if he was being joking or not, Hunk's thoughtful contributions and Shiro's mediation. The only one they were missing was the Princess. Pidge found she regretted that more and more after that as their conversation turned towards less debatable subjects. If the paladins of Voltron could get along so easily, so impossibly and improbably easily, then surely their final member would slot into place perfectly too. Wouldn't she?

Pidge forgot herself. She forgot about any personal uneasiness, about her concerns for her friends and what they might think of her, and about how she could be judged for the way she acted or who she was. She forgot that she had a curfew that she had to be home for and simply revelled in the delights of camaraderie and the pizza Shiro ordered when the evening evolved into night.

Pidge forgot herself so much that she asked Keith what she really shouldn't have. "I didn't see you last Wednesday, though, Keith. Where were you? You usually always come."

As one, the rest of her friends paused in their conversations, jaws locked mid-bite and turned towards her. Then, similarly as one, Shiro, Lance and Hunk turned towards Keith.

Pidge wished she could bite out her tongue, and not only because she'd mentioned something that she'd wanted to keep private even from most of her Voltron friends. What she had at the youth centre, what she and Keith both had, was theirs and theirs alone. They shouldn't be forced to share it, even if they knew one another attended.

More than that, however, it was the sudden blankness of Keith's expression that made her cringe. Keith, she'd realised, didn't let himself show a whole lot of expression as it was, but it was worse this time than it had been before. Utter blankness settled upon his feature, and when he affixed his eerily unblinking stare upon her, Pidge felt as though she'd very much said something wrong. Something she shouldn't have mentioned at all. Keith's lips pressed together just slightly as though to forbid words from coming forth.

Lance, unfortunately, held no such qualms about speaking. Glancing between Pidge and Keith, his expression grew from furrowed confusion into incredulity. "I knew it. I _knew_ it. At the station, after what you said – you guys _do_ know each other, right?"

Pidge cringed once more, outwardly this time, and then again with Keith's short, "Yes."

Even Lance in his triumph must have been able to hear the reluctance in Keith's tone. He deflated slightly before glancing around at each of them, meeting Shiro's and Hunk's similarly curious expressions and grazing his eyes over Pidge briefly before turning back towards Keith. "Have I put my foot in something? Is this a sensitive topic?"

After a long pause, Keith shrugged. He picked at his pizza for a moment, eyes fixed upon the slice, before speaking. "Not to me. Pidge?"

Pidge ignored the three pairs of eyes that turned towards her again, staring instead at Keith. She really wished she hadn't spoken, even if it was by accident. "I don't mind," she said quietly.

"Then it's fine," Keith said. "We just go to the same youth centre."

Silence met his words, which was broken only after a whole minute by Hunk's nearly inaudible, "Oh."

"Sorry," Shiro said, though he shouldn't have been apologising for anything. "We didn't mean to intrude upon something private."

Keith raised his gaze towards him, flashed a glance towards Pidge, then back to Shiro. "It's fine. You've all basically found out everything private about me. What's one more thing?"

From anyone else, Keith's words might have been resentful. They might have been frowning or accusing or even hateful for the intrusion of having their privacy taken forcibly from them. Pidge knew how much Keith valued his; it was apparent even through Voltron that he didn't like speaking of himself. But his words were blank and almost careless, as though he really didn't care that they all knew. In some ways, Pidge thought that made it even worse. For a private person, shouldn't he have been more invested in that privacy?

But he continued a moment later just as offhandedly. "In answer to your question, Pidge, I just had a meeting with the social worker who's assigned to me last Wednesday. They don't happen that often but I have to be there for all of them."

Pidge really, really wished she hadn't spoken, then. She knew next to nothing about Keith's foster care experience, but surely it mustn't have been anything profoundly positive. Not if he hadn't said a word of his foster family to anyone. He would have said something, wouldn't he?

"Sorry," she mumbled, turning her own gaze down to her half-eaten pizza. She'd abruptly lost her appetite. "I didn't mean to pry."

"I wouldn't have told you if I didn't want to," Keith replied, just as offhandedly as he had before.

"Is it… was it alright?" Lance asked, and for the first time in Pidge's memory he actually sounded tentative.

Pidge raised her gaze for long enough to see Keith shrug. "They're never particularly pleasant. The Tulson's aren't a really bad family, but I guess you'd say I'm what the system classifies as a 'problem child'."

"A problem child?" Hunk asked, and he sounded almost fearful. He was glancing around their circle of seated with eyes blown wide as though seeking an answer, if not expressly from Keith. Then, likely hearing the question in his own words, he hastened to retract them. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, it's just –"

"I said it's fine," Keith said, leaning forward to place his own slice of pizza on a plate on the coffee table before him. "I don't really care. It's nothing that exciting so I've just never really found a need to say anything about it."

 _Sure that's the reason,_ Pidge thought, but she couldn't say it. Not after her botched up previous attempt at conversation. The ease of their discussion had faded beneath the tension that welled in everyone but an openly blank-faced Keith. It was regretful, so regretful, because Keith had never wanted to say anything. Pidge knew what it was like to want to keep some things a secret. She shouldn't have asked. Everyone had their problems, the things they wanted to keep behind closed doors. They shouldn't be forced to open those doors.

But Keith continued just as casually as he had before a second later. "I've been through a lot foster homes. At first it was just because none of them really fit properly, then one…" He paused, seeming to deliberately decide to skip over whatever he'd been about to say. "It wasn't a great experience, and I got sick of it all. To say I haven't been easy for the families since would probably be the nicest way of saying it." Reaching for the glasses of water Shiro had dotted the table with, he shrugged as he sipped. "A problem child."

No one seemed able to speak in reply to that. Not even Lance who Pidge had reached the conclusion had something to say about everything. Not now, though. He was looking at Keith with a confusing expression that could have been pity, or sympathy, or simply regret, or maybe something else entirely. Wariness? Anger, even? At who, Pidge couldn't tell. A glance at Hunk found his expression just as sorrowfully cast, and Shiro wore his own a little pained.

It was Shiro who spoke first. "I don't think you're a problem child, Keith."

"Oh no, I am," Keith said, glancing towards him. "There's basically a label on my file."

"You've seen your file?" Lance asked a little redundantly.

"No," Keith replied with a shrug. "But I don't need to."

"Regardless," Shiro continued, "I don't believe that. I think they're just assigning you to the wrong families."

"I don't think they could get it wrong so many times."

"Clearly they have," Lance muttered, and there was definitely anger in his tone this time.

"Or," Keith said, glancing towards him once more, "there's a common denominator." He took another sip of water before lowering the glass to cradle in his lap. His knuckles were a little bruised, Pidge saw for the first time. It was a detached observation. "Not that it matters. I've only got a little longer until I can move out anyway. When I'm eighteen."

"What?" Lance blinked rapidly. "You're moving out of your home?"

"It's not really my home," Keith said. "I've only been with the Tulson's for a few months."

"Where will you go?" Hunk asked, his voice wavering slightly. Hunk was clearly an empathetic person. "Wait, I can't even think… how would you even support yourself? Where would you live?"

"I haven't decided that yet. But I have a job, and I have my savings. I'll find somewhere."

It sounded wrong. To Pidge's ears, it sounded so wrong. She had her problems – with her mom, with herself, with her stupid struggle to find acceptance that should be simply from herself but she needed from other people. Hunk had his problems with his own mom, the indirect cause of his dropping out of school as he'd admitted on Voltron to never wanting to. Pidge knew Lance had his issues with his family that he wouldn't acknowledge as being issues, and Shiro from his accident that had forced him from active duty. Even the Princess clearly had something going on, even if she didn't admit it openly.

None of that seemed quite as immediate as what was happening to Keith, however. It could have been that he was so blasé about his situation, or that he didn't seem to hold any particular attachments to the family he'd lived with for months. It could have been that he was about the only one in the room who didn't seem to see there was something very wrong with his situation, or to be concerned that he'd been seriously injured the week before and hadn't wanted to go back to the house he lived in.

Or it could have been all of that together. All of it. To Pidge, it just seemed so wrong.

"You can come and stay with me."

At Shiro's words, all eyes turned towards him. He sat all but frozen in his seat in the perfect posture he'd assumed hours before when he'd first taken it. That was simply who Shiro was, Pidge had realised. It was purely him. Open and proper and _good_. Caring, as was apparent from the soft yet steady focus he trained upon Keith.

Keith stared at him with the same intentness he did everyone, the kind of gaze that suggested undivided attention. "What?"

"Here." Shiro made a vague gesture with his hand to encompass the apartment. "If you've got nowhere else to go, come and live here."

Keith was shaking his head. "No. I don't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"That would be intruding."

"It's not intruding if you're asked first," Hunk said. "Just like with me. I wanted you to come to my place."

"You were forced to take me because I asked," Keith said. "There's a difference."

"Technically it wasn't you who asked," Lance said. "That was me."

Keith shook his head once more. "No. That's not fair."

"How isn't it fair?" Pidge asked, because she was truly at a loss. Whatever was going through Keith's head wasn't making any sense. "Shiro asked you, and I'm assuming it's not because he doesn't want you around. He wouldn't ask if he didn't mean it."

"I'm not an obligation," Keith said, and his voice sharpened. A frown settled upon his brow, breaking through the blankness. "I don't need pity and I don't need you to adopt me because I'm some homeless foster kid, Shiro."

 _Ah_ , Pidge thought, as understanding dawned. _I see. That's probably how it's been with his other foster families._

Shiro clearly realised the same thing, for when he spoke it was in an echo of Pidge's thoughts. "You're not an obligation, Keith. I don't think you was for your foster families either, because I don't think they would have taken you otherwise, but for me you're definitely not. I want you to move in with me."

"No one would want that," Keith said. It would have sounded pitiful except that Pidge doubted Keith had ever sounded pitiful or self-pitying in his entire life. "And I can take care of myself."

"So you're just going to leave?" Lance said, straightening in his seat. His attention was fixed upon Keith as though he couldn't drag it away. "You're, what, just going to take off somewhere as soon as you turn eighteen and don't have to be fostered anymore?"

"That was the intention," Keith said, shrugging a shoulder. "I guess."

Lance's hand twitched, and it might have been Pidge's imagination but she could have sworn it was an aborted attempt to make a grab for Keith as though to physically hold him in place. His hand curled into a fist on his knee instead. "But…"

"Keith," Shiro said, and the way he spoke drew Pidge's attention compulsively. His expression was hardened but also somehow pleading. "We really wouldn't want you to just disappear."

"I don't think disappearing is really possible in this day and age," Keith said.

"Actually, dozens of people go missing just in New York State every year," Hunk said quietly. Pidge cringed. She wished he hadn't said that.

"You can't just… you can't…" Lance seemed to be struggling for words and actually glanced towards Shiro as if seeking assistance. "You're not going to just let him leave, are you?"

"No one's letting me do anything," Keith said, the frown back in his voice as much as it was upon his face. "I can do whatever I want."

"Not 'til you're eighteen, you can't," Lance said, his voice rising.

"Which is only a few months away. Like I said. And it would be _my_ decision."

"Shiro?"

Lance's single word was almost desperate, and Pidge couldn't help but stare at him. His hand was curled so tightly into a fist that he looked on the verge of punching someone. A glance exchanged with Hunk and Pidge couldn't help but wonder. Maybe Hunk's claim wasn't so hard to conceive after all.

Shiro spoke with all rationality and maturity that made Pidge originally think he was closer to thirty than twenty when he spoke on Voltron. "Keith, we'd really like it if you stuck around. You're right, and it is your decision, but we care for you. We'd like you to stay with us. And I really would like it if you decided to take me up on my offer. Like I said, this apartment's really too big for me. You'd be doing me a favour."

Keith stared at Shiro, blankness reasserting control of his features and smoothing away his frown. Pidge warily considered that it had a different kind of meaning to it this time, however. It wasn't the blankness of controlled expressionlessness but instead of incomprehension. Pidge wasn't an empathetic person, not like Hunk, and she didn't even really considered herself sympathetic, but she _felt_ when she saw Keith like that. She wondered if anyone had ever sincerely told Keith they cared about him and what he did.

It put her own issues into perspective just a little. She knew it was all relative, that everyone's problems were profound and paramount to them to their own degree, but Pidge had always had someone who cared enough to tell her they loved her. Matt certainly did. Her mom too even admitted it on the odd occasion.

"But," Keith began, paused, then continued. "That's not really fair."

"If it makes you feel any better, you could contribute a little to the rent," Shiro said. "You don't have to, as I've got it covered, but really, if it would make you more comfortable."

Keith regarded Shiro for a moment and his silence hung tangibly in the air. Pidge found she was almost holding her breath as she glanced between them. Then, slowly and almost hesitantly, Keith nodded. "I'll… I'll think about it."

It wasn't a yes, but it was something at least. Pidge exhaled slowly and as silently as she could. She noticed she wasn't the only one to do so. Shiro nodded his head briefly and smiled. "Of course it is. Take your time."

"Thanks," Keith muttered, raising his glass to his lips once more. "I will."

"Just don't leave before you do, man," Lance said, and finally raising his fist, he knuckled Keith in the shoulder in what couldn't really be deemed a punch. It was made even less so by the fact that he slung an arm across Keith's shoulders a moment later. It was apparently not an entirely unfamiliar gesture, for Keith merely glanced towards him as he did so. Strange, given that Pidge wouldn't have thought he'd be open to such a thing. "We like having you around, okay? So sue us."

Pidge didn't speak her agreement, even if she felt it. For a moment, just a moment, the fragile joy she'd experienced that evening had hung suspended on the edge of a precipice. That Keith might leave, someone that she barely knew and had only just met in person, somehow seemed like one of the worst things that could happen in her whole world. Pidge knew she wasn't the only one to think so, either. She could see it in the expressions of her friends around her. Voltron meant something, and not just to her.

Their circumstances still stood teetering on that precipice, but at least they had momentarily balanced itself. Taking another bite of pizza that she hardly tasted, Pidge was grateful for that at least. For that moment she could revel in the company of her friends.

 _Damn you, Keith. I'm not going to let you take it away from me just by leaving, s_ he thought, all but glaring at him across the room. _No way in hell are you just going to leave._


	10. The Both Of Us

_29/10 - 06.03am_

_PM from BlackLion007 to PrincessOfAltea_

_BlackLion007: Hello?_

_BlackLion007: Princess?_

_BlackLion007: I hope you're doing well. I haven't heard from you in a while and no one of your other paladins has either. I don't mean to pry but I'll admit I was concerned for your wellbeing._

_BlackLion007: I hope your absence is indicative that you are healthy and too busy to write._

_BlackLion007 has signed out._

_09.29am_

_PM from PrincessOfAltea to BlackLion007_

_PrincessOfAltea: I'm terribly sorry, BlackLion. I didn't intend to miss your arrival._

_PrincessOfAltea: I have been sleeping much longer recently and as such have found myself missing my usual early morning wake-ups. I do find that I miss them. They're a good way to start the day._

_PrincessOfAltea: But I appear to have missed you in turn. I hope you're doing well. You've moved back into your old apartment, have you not? That's wonderful! I am so pleased for you._

_PrincessOfAltea: You must be doing very well yourself for such an impressive development. Please, tell me, how are you? And how is everyone else? I haven't had much of a chance to speak with them either. I'm not sure if I simply miss my opportunities of unfortunately – or fortunately, given its connotation – Voltron is less active than usual._

_PrincessOfAltea: Either way, I hope to hear you are well soon._

_PrincessOfAltea has signed out._

_10.47am_

_PM from BlackLion007 to PrincessOfAltea_

_BlackLion007: It appears we've missed each other once again! I'm sorry, I took myself to the shops and I forgot my phone. I believe that Pidge would be horrified with me. Living life through the phone is his primary mode of functioning, did you know?_

_BlackLion007: I'm sorry, I meant DiffWizard. I see so much of them these days, as much as they can each manage, that it seems almost strange to consider them as anything but their real names sometimes. But as for your question, I will tell you._

_BlackLion007: Everyone is doing well. Very well, actually. After our first meeting – which was a little rocky, I'll admit – I think we've all become grateful for one another's company. I see most of them every few days, which is very nice as I have found I truly enjoy spending time with them. They're a great group of kids, although I think Lance would be somewhat indignant if he heard me calling them kids again. "Seven years older doesn't mean you can call us kids," he says. I think he considers it funny more than annoying, though._

_BlackLion007: Pidge has come out of his shell a little – and I apologise for the confusion, but I most often refer to him in the gender of which I've last spoken to him. But he's grown and become a little more comfortable with himself, I think. Or more so than he was before. He says he never really has a whole lot to do with other people and that we're the only ones he really likes. That's how he says it. Always a little sarcastically, that is. He's quite a persistently sarcastic person for that matter, though not cruelly so I don't think. He's very smart too, and well beyond his years academically. I do enjoy his company, and for all that he acts hard he's proved to at times be a very affectionate person._

_BlackLion007: Hunk appears happier these days too. I don't think he used to get out that much and he's told me he never spends time with his old school friends, but he's taken to visiting my apartment with his mother every so often. I think he's always a little nervous being away from her and dislikes leaving her with his grandmother as he thinks it places the responsibility to heavily on another person. He's a very sweet young man, and I enjoy it when he comes to visit. I believe he's considering my suggestion that he and his mother spend the evening at my apartment in the future. It's always nice to have people come for a visit; the place always did feel too big just for myself._

_BlackLion007: Lance tends to come around when he can too, and with Hunk as much as he can. With Keith too, for that matter. He seems to have taken a liking to Keith, and Keith a little bit to him as well, which is nice. They're a positive influence on one another, I think, and after the upheaval that's going on with Keith_

_BlackLion007: Sorry, this will only be a brief divergence, but I don't know if you've heard. I wasn't sure if you had, but I thought to just inform you that I asked Keith if he would like to move in with me when he turns eighteen. I hope he'll consider it. Lance seemed rather adamant that he accept and he seems to be more inclined to listen to Lance most of the time, even if he does a little begrudgingly agree to my suggestions. Lance is a very persistent person. I believe he would be difficult to ignore._

_BlackLion007: But anyway, we are all well. As well as can be. But I'd like to hear from you, Princess, if possible. All of us are concerned for you and it would be very heartening to know if you are getting back upon your feet again._

_BlackLion007: I know you were still in hospital last time we really spoke. Have you perhaps checked out again? That would be wonderful._

_11.11am_

_PrincessOfAltea has entered into the chatroom._

_PM from PrincessOfAltea to BlackLion007:_

_PrincessOfAltea: BlackLion! Did I perhaps finally catch you in time?_

_BlackLion007: Princess! How nice to hear from you :)_

_PrincessOfAltea: And you, my friend. I'm so grateful for your most recent message. It sounds as though you are all doing swimmingly._

_BlackLion007: I like to think so, yes._

_BlackLion007: But what of you? We haven't heard much from one another of late. How have you been? Have you possibly checked out of hospital?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Ah, that is good to hear. It makes me so happy to hear as much._

_PrincessOfAltea: But me? No, I'm afraid I'm not out of hospital just at the moment unfortunately. I fear it might be quite some time before I'm afforded the opportunity to return home._

_BlackLion007: Oh. That's terrible news. Are you alright?_

_PrincessOfAltea: Not so terrible :) Simply routine, I should hope. I find myself very tired of late and can't seem to keep up my normal pace!_

_PrincessOfAltea: But hopefully I shall be on my feet soon enough once more. It has happened before._

_BlackLion007: I'm so sorry to hear that._

_PrincessOfAltea: Don't be. Truly, I'm fine._

_BlackLion007: Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I have nothing much but free time on my hands at the moment._

_PrincessOfAltea: That's very kind of you, BlackLion. I appreciate your offer, but it's unnecessary as I don't find myself needing anything. Your updates and those of the rest of the paladins are more than I could ask for._

_PrincessOfAltea: I fear I am all but useless at present. The most I can really do is listen rather than offer true support, so I will listen to the very best of my ability._

_BlackLion007: Now, I don't believe that. I think you undermine just how helpful you have been. You're probably just overlooking that which you are good at for seeing only what you consider as being inadequate. Never underestimate the power of listening and simply replying._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you, BlackLion._

_PrincessOfAltea: That truly means a lot to me._

_PrincessOfAltea: Thank you._

_BlackLion007: You're very welcome. Any time._

* * *

There were many things that Keith wasn't good at. In his opinion, those things often outweighed what he actually _could_ do. He was smart, he acknowledged, but he wasn't a genius and he was terrible at his English studies. His conversation skills were appalling, he knew, which was something that he'd never really cared about for being inadequate at. He was fit enough and adept at a number of sports he'd attempted, but he couldn't function particularly well in a team of strangers or even classmates, and working with others frustrated him. He wasn't empathetic or even particularly sympathetic, could never understand people very well from simply reading their expressions, and when it came to being a 'nice person', Keith felt he fell somewhat short.

As a general rule, Keith had always accepted that he simply wasn't a people person. He'd never wanted to be – or at least he hadn't for years – because people were, by and large, dangerous. Risking spending time with them and getting to know them opened him up to accumulating vulnerabilities that could be abused. It had happened before when he was younger. His first foster family he'd been convinced he was going to stay with forever until they were forced to send him back for administration reasons. Then he'd been betrayed by Tomas and the D'Ascartes, and that had broken something within him that he hadn't tried or even wanted to fix.

Keith was always going to be alone. That much he'd accepted. The paladins of Voltron, however, seemed to have other ideas.

After his incident with the near-hospital experience, something that still caused him to shudder slightly to consider how close he'd come, everything had changed. Everything, and it started when Shiro moved back to his apartment. It started when they all visited Shiro's apartment together.

Keith hadn't felt comfortable staying at Hunk's house. Truthfully, he'd never felt comfortable staying at anyone's house, but he felt he was abusing Hunk's misplaced trust by using the stepladder of their knowing one another from Voltron. Hunk couldn't say no when he'd been asked to put Keith up in a bed, and that made it unfair. Keith didn't like unfairness. He never had.

Hunk was a good person, he'd discovered. The kind of person raised to instinctively do what was right rather than what was easy. It was probably why he'd let Keith use his guest room for nearly a whole week when Shiro asked in his way that was almost an order yet somehow wasn't at all. In that short time, Keith learned a lot about Hunk. He learned he was a good-natured person and it would take the weight of heaven and earth to make him truly angry. He was affectionate and utterly doted upon his mother, despite her unresponsiveness to absolutely everything. He was…

Hunk was a good person. That made abusing his goodness even worse.

It was the same with Shiro. Shiro was a good person, though Keith didn't think he quite accepted his own goodness. He was generous and compassionate, seemed to wholly think of those around him rather than himself, and never had a bad word to say about anyone. More than that, he was a man of action. Keith wasn't quite sure why he'd remained at the hospital for as long as he had – he hadn't even known that Shiro was staying there – but after the incident that had drawn him to Hunk's house that first night he'd been nothing but efficient in his actions. Signing out of hospital, moving into his own apartment and –

And asking Keith if he wanted to move in with him. That was something unexpected and Keith still didn't quite know how to respond. He'd never been _asked_ to move into a house before. Every other time he'd simply been told where he was going.

DiffWizard – or Pidge as he liked to be called regardless of whether he felt he was a girl and a boy at the time – was something else too. Small and younger than Keith was by three years, he'd always seemed reserved at the meetings at the youth centre. Keith had hardly been able to reconcile him with him online persona for their vastly different personalities. Except that when he was around them, around his fellow paladins, he was different to how he'd been when Keith first saw him at the youth centre. He was DiffWizard.

Keith found that he liked Pidge more when he let himself be DiffWizard, or DiffWitch when such arose. Pidge seemed to make a point of meeting up with them as much as possible, just as Hunk did whenever he could, and often with his mother in tow. Just as Shiro did too.

Keith wasn't used to such frequent company. It was unhinging to have people want to spend time with him. To want to almost constantly spend time with him, and want to simply be _around_ him. It was strange. Uncomfortable, even, and he wasn't sure if he disliked it or if it was simply that he'd never experienced anything even resembling such enthusiasm before. Had Keith his own choice on the matter, he probably would have left them all at the earliest opportunity. His leaving would have been even more likely after they'd all but exploded into unfathomable distress when he'd told them his plans for his eighteenth year. Withdrawing, retreating into the comfort of his isolation that was as self-imposed as it was forced upon him, had always been a step towards safety he'd assumed.

Keith would have, except Lance wouldn't let him. Lance and Shiro both, primarily, but whereas Shiro was respectful and at times hesitant to offend by impressing his company upon Keith through messages and their now less frequent discussions on Voltron, Lance had no such qualms.

It started when Keith first took himself back to the Tulson's house. Or more correctly, it kept going. Keith had been living at Hunk's for nearly a week and, though returning to the Tulson's wasn't a much better prospect, it was an improvement upon imposing himself on someone Keith was slowly and tentatively _maybe_ growing fond of. He couldn't let himself do that. Shiro asked if he'd like the company on the way and Keith had declined the offer.

Lance hadn't asked at all.

"What are you doing?" Keith said as, heading towards the train station from Hunk's house, Lance fell into his usual springing step alongside him.

Lance flashed him a grin, his usual wide, cheek-splitting grin that Keith had been afflicted by so much over the past few days that it was almost customary to see him wearing it. No matter how many times he saw it, however, Keith could never quite look away. Lance looked natural smiling, and it morphed his entire face into something spectacular. His eyes sparkled and his dimple flashed and though it shouldn't have been possible, the simple act of his toothy grin appearing was entirely captivating. Keith had never seen someone smile like that before.

"I'm coming with you," Lance replied easily.

Keith paused in step in the middle of the sidewalk. He stared at Lance because he could only stare. "What?"

"Me. Coming. With you." Lance raised his hand and made a frankly indecipherable series of gestures in the direction they were headed. On the busy path where they were, rapidly flooding with people even before they'd left Hunk's street, he nearly whacked two passers-by with his gesticulations.

Keith blinked. "No you're not."

If possible, Lance's grin widened further. "Actually, I am."

"You're not coming with me."

"Don't tell me what I can't do, Red."

"Why do you call me that?" It was perhaps the thousandth time Keith had asked, and despite his confusion he was almost used to the name being used after days in Lance's company. Lance had been by Hunk's every afternoon after school, even when he'd gone to his father's barbershop, and he always stayed until later than he should have.

Lance shrugged. "It's a nickname."

"I'm not that stupid. I know what it is."

"Then don't ask stupid questions. And don't deflect from the conversation. I'm coming with you."

Shaking his head, Keith edged backwards slightly to allow another pedestrian to pass between them. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you do that? I don't need an escort, Lance."

Lance pursed his lips, propping his hands on his hips. "I didn't say you did, but I'm serious about what I said at Shiro's, Keith. You're not just going to up and disappear again. We're friends, right?"

Keith stared at him for a long moment once more. Friends. Friends was… Keith didn't have friends. He didn't really need them and regardless of how Lance and Shiro and Pidge and Hunk thought of him, it was easier if he didn't. But Voltron had always been different. Keith had never quite understood what had possessed him to sign up to the chatroom in the first place but it was the same reason he kept returning over and over again, even after fleeing from prying questions. It was why he kept his phone on hand when he was at school, why he stayed up to all hours talking to the faceless correspondents Sharpshooter and BlackLion.

Maybe it was because it was safe to talk to those he would never meet in reality. But then how did it explain that, even when he'd met them, Keith didn't feel quite so inclined to disregard them and 'disappear' as Lance had termed it? He'd never had people that he wanted to be around before. Not really. Not besides Tomas, but Tomas was…

Shaking his head, Keith turned and started at a stride along with the flow of pedestrian traffic once more. "Whatever. Do what you want."

"Really?" Lance actually sounded surprised as he picked up his own feet and trotted alongside him. "You're not going to, I don't know, order me to go away or something."

Keith glanced towards him sidelong. Lance's smile had faded slightly to be replaced by raised eyebrows and a wide-eyed blinking. He scooted in a crab-like step to watch Keith as they walked. "You sound very confident for someone who thought I was going to tell them to go away."

Lance's grin returned in full with his words. "Well, confidence is half the battle, you know. Act confident and everyone just assumes you're entitled."

"So it's all an act, then?"

"For me? No. No it's not."

"You're not making any sense. You just said that –"

"I meant for _other_ people," Lance emphasised. "I'm different."

"Of course you are," Keith muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, but now I definitely want to know. What was it? Hm? _Hm_?"

Lance's company certainly made the trip back to the Tulson's house more interesting. He morphed what Keith would otherwise have experienced as a journey of introverted silence into a bubble of noise and enthusiasm. How he remained so incessantly enthusiastic about absolutely everything Keith didn't think he'd ever know, but he managed long after Keith had ceased contributing equally to the conversation and seemed content to monologue about whatever crossed the surface of his thoughts. Strangely enough, as strange as it was to have a constant conversationalist at his side, Keith couldn't find that he hated it. It was almost like having Sharpshooter buzzing his phone with activity every other second. Different, but almost the same.

Keith hadn't expected Lance to accompany him the entire way to the Tulson's house. He certainly hadn't expected him to step up alongside him as Keith approached the front door to let himself in. More than that, Keith wasn't prepared for Lance introducing himself to the family that Keith himself had as little to do with as possible.

Sara was there. So was Clyde, and Olly, and they all flowed into the entry as Keith slipped silently into the house followed by a not at all silent Lance. Sara almost stumbled as she hastened from the dining room into the entry, blinking in surprise and apparently rendered mute.

"But it doesn't even matter, am I right?" Lance was saying about something or other that Keith hardly attended to. "I mean, if she wanted to go _so badly_ I didn't care if she came along – oh." Lance cut himself off as he was suddenly made aware of his audience. He glanced briefly towards Keith as though seeking instruction before turning back to Sara. "Hello. Sorry to intrude. I hope you don't mind. I'm Keith's friend."

Sara had never been a loud person. She'd never been pushy or sought to intrude upon Keith's withdrawal. As Keith kept to himself, she generally let him, with only a feeble attempt at conversation every now and again, offering a tentative hand just as rarely that she quickly dropped when it wasn't grasped. When Sara glanced between Lance and Keith, however, it was apparent that she wouldn't let the situation lie unremarked upon. "Keith's… friend?"

Keith knew where Sara's confusion arose for he'd never before even mentioned a friend, let alone been seen with one. Taking one to the Tulson's house was unthinkable. Lance didn't know that, however, and nodding he made to continue speaking. Keith barely spared him a moment of his attention, however. He saw the instant Sara noticed the bruise that still coloured his face, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Keith. What happened to you?"

Whatever Lance had been going to say was silenced by her words. He turned slowly towards Keith, glanced back to Sara, then whispered, "I thought you said you called them."

"I did," Keith said and, in an attempt at casualness, crouched to remove his boots. The Tulson's had always had a habit of removing their shoes at the front door. It was one that not all of his foster families had, but Keith was used to adapting himself.

"You didn't tell them about the… the…" Keith glanced up towards Lance in time to see him gesture at his own face before making another series of gestures as indecipherable as always that Keith assumed was meant to refer to the rest of his injuries.

Shrugging, Keith dropped his gaze. "No. It wasn't necessary."

"It wasn't _necessary_?"

"No." For it wasn't. Why would the Tulson's need to know about what had happened? Clyde would likely be satisfied for the fact, Olly wouldn't understand enough to care, and Sara and Peter would worry because he was their responsibility. Why did he have to tell them anything?

"Keith, are you alright?" Sara said, shuffling forwards a step. Her hand was still raised to her mouth.

Keith rose to standing once more. He very deliberately didn't reach towards the bruise he knew still darkened his cheek. It didn't really hurt all that much anymore and likely looked worse than it was. Most of his injuries were the same, his sprains on the mend, ribs healed enough that it no longer hurt should he cough, and the cuts on his belly all but wholly sealed closed. Of course they were, for Shiro likely wouldn't have let Keith leave Hunk's house if they weren't.

It should have annoyed him that Shiro was so demanding. It should have annoyed him that all of his friends were pushy in their concern. It should have… but somehow it didn't. Not really. Not at all. And _that_ was _strange_.

Nodding in reply to Sara's words, Keith kept his expression blank. "I'm fine."

"What… will you tell me what happened?"

Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, Keith edged slightly towards the stairwell. The room allocated to him in the Tulson's house had never felt like his, but it was the most 'his' place in the entire house. Keith didn't want to talk to the Tulson's. He didn't want to remain in Clyde's unblinking and a little bit shocked sights or before Olly's open-mouthed staring. "It doesn't really matter."

"Keith…"

"Mrs Tulson, is it?" Lance abruptly broke into the awkward exchange, stepping towards Sara with a hand outstretched. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm Lance. And you don't have to worry about Keith; he just had a, um... a fall! Yeah, he just fell over a bit and tripped right onto his face. But he's alright now."

No one with half a brain would have possibly believed Lance's feeble explanation – a fall that ended with a shiner and nearly a week of absence? Unlikely – but Sara didn't comment. She simply blinked up at Lance, hesitantly took his hand and, after darting a glance towards Keith, she nodded. "I see. It's nice to meet you, Lance."

Lance smiled his usual disarming smile, for all appearances entirely comfortable with the situation. Maybe he really was. "My pleasure. I can't say I've heard a whole heap about you – Keith doesn't really talk all that much about himself, you probably know – but he's one of my best friends so I guess it's probably a good thing that we met." Then he laughed easily, as though to say such a thing was the most natural thing in the world.

As he descended into what was a progressively easier introduction with Sara, even introducing himself to Clyde and Olly who seemed nothing if not warily reluctant to meet him, Keith could only stand at the base of the stairwell and stare at him. Not because Lance was befriending the Tulsons, for he didn't care unduly for that. No, it was because of what he'd said. That Keith was… that he was…

 _He hardly even knows me. How could he say that we're best friends_?

And yet he had. Just like that, Lance neatly inserted himself into Keith's life and what he shared however distantly with the Tulsons. And after that first day, it became something of a common for Lance to come over to the Tulson's house of an afternoon and simply spend time with him. Keith didn't know why. He didn't really understand what Lance wanted. And yet, in spite of that, he didn't mind.

There were few things that Keith truly recognised he liked. He had always been fond of the colour Red; it reminded him of his mother and her own favourite colour, was one of the few things he still recalled of her. He liked the necklace he always wore that was just about the only thing he still had of his parents. He liked swords and sword-fighting and had always vaguely wanted to try it himself for reasons even he couldn't fathom. He liked the simple act of scrolling through newsfeeds and websites too, absorbing information of any variety that piqued his interest. Just as much as that, he liked his privacy.

Paradoxically enough, however, Keith discovered that he quite liked Lance's company. The rest of the paladins – Shiro, Hunk, Pidge, the Princess who was the only one he hadn't met – were all the same. He _liked_ being with them and talking in a way that he hadn't had with anyone in years, if ever. Keith didn't know why, but he did. They met on a frequent basis, as a pair or a group, and most often at Shiro's apartment or Hunk's house. It was… comfortable. Easy, even, just as Pidge had once called it, and even more so after the demands for Keith to look after himself and take it easy had gradually died. Keith found he liked their company even more when he wasn't the centre of their attention.

Lance, however, was different again. Keith couldn't quite fathom – at least initially – why he felt the urge to actually _want_ to spend time with him. He would walk home with Lance sometimes, despite Lance living more than an hour and half a city away. They would spend at least part of the weekend together, and when they weren't Keith would always find himself exchanging messages every other second. Not through Voltron so much anymore, but simply messaging.

Keith had grown accustomed to speaking to Lance almost every hour of the day, and Lance always had something to say. Even when he was at home with his family, because Keith knew he always felt guilty spending time away from them, or when he was at his father's barbershop and _supposedly_ working, Keith received messages from him. Almost constantly at times.

It didn't take him long to realise why. He wasn't an idiot and rational thinking was something that he was actually good at. And Keith rationalised that he liked Lance. That he really liked him, and in a different way to how he liked the rest of the paladins.

It was strange, because Keith didn't like people. He didn't really like anyone, and understanding that the paladins of Voltron were an exception was unhinging as it was. To realise that he liked Lance in another way entirely… Keith hadn't really liked anyone like that before. No one besides Tomas. He didn't think he would, either, because that wasn't right. It was dangerous to like in that way an made him vulnerable.

But rationalising, understanding, perceiving – Keith knew he wasn't an idiot and that was what it was. Maybe it was wrong of him to think in such a way, but it was. It definitely was.

Why Lance was the exception – why anyone from Voltron was the exception – Keith didn't know. Maybe it was because they'd slowly but surely edged into his everyday life and he'd come to know them before he _knew_ them. Maybe it was for who they were, because none, with no exception, were anything but incredible people. Even in their workaday lives, even in their struggles, Keith could see they were incredible. They were _special_. Maybe that was why; Keith simply felt drawn to being a part of what they were.

Keith had never been a part of anything before. Ever. Memory of Lance's words on his first day in Hunk's house rose to the forefront of his mind often after he'd met the paladins and begun to realise just how much he _liked_ them. Lance had said that forced company wasn't wrong if the receiving party wanted that company in turn.

Did Keith want it? He hadn't thought he did but… maybe. Maybe he really, really did.

Strange. So much had happened since entering Voltron that was strange.

It was with that revelation that Keith fully came to accept that Lance in particular was rapidly becoming a permanent fixture in his life. He grew to know him, to familiarise himself with his quirks and grow accustomed to the babbling sound of his voice. To perhaps even understand him in a way that Keith had never taking the time to understand anyone else before. It was for that reason, that reason in particular, that he finally decided to take a step in Lance's direction for himself.

Waiting at the train station as was usual for him, Keith leaned distractedly on the glass window of the bus shelter that had become his and Lance's usual meeting point for the past weeks. Around him, the roiling noise of passing traffic, the gaggle of students waiting for their buses, the occasional outburst of laughter, resounded almost deafeningly.

Keith had never been fond of overwhelming noise and he never much liked the thickness of the city at five o'clock in the afternoon. Still, he made the exception because Lance had asked him to. When Keith thought about it, he considered that maybe there was something a little wrong with him for doing that, so he didn't consider it.

He was flicking and barely seeing the site he scrolled through – something about the late Joseon Dynasty in Korea dotted with a plethora of interesting if admittedly grainy black and white pictures – when he felt Lance appear at his side. Felt almost more than saw, even, though hearing was the most obvious distinguisher for his arrival.

"Red! Sorry, I kind of got caught talking to Henry when he dropped all his crap on the ground and I swear, he was taking forever to pick it up because you know he carries folders too and, like, three pencil cases? So," with a huff, Lance paused at Keith's side and adopted his usual wide grin as a token of greeting. "Hi."

Keith lowered his phone, raising his gaze to blink up at Lance. He shrugged as he shoved his phone into his pocket and folded his arms. "I don't mind. I wasn't exactly waiting a long time."

"Were you bored?"

"Bored? Lance, it was all of ten minutes."

"It's alright, you're allowed to admit you miss me." Slinging an arm around Keith's shoulders, Lance smirked. "Sorry to make you wait but you can't rush perfection."

Keith shook his head as they started in the general direction of the wherever Lance had chosen. It was always like that; Keith didn't spend enough time simply wandering the city to know any places to go to simply 'hang out', so he led Lance lead him. He hadn't always been comfortable with Lance all but throwing himself on him, the casual gestures of an arm around his neck or a hand on the wrist, but it was something instinctive enough for Lance that he was forced to either live with it or keep a full three feet between them at all times.

Keith didn't do that. He wouldn't. Besides, strange and unfamiliar as it was, he'd come to quite like the warm weight of Lance's arm across his shoulders. Contrary to his personal beliefs, Lance wasn't truly all that much taller than Keith if he was taller at all, but the slight awkwardness of their positioning didn't make it uncomfortable. Not in Keith's opinion, anyway.

Besides, Keith quite liked it when it was Lance. It felt nice to be close to him in a way that Keith hadn't ever experienced before. Unfamiliar, foreign even, but… nice.

"There. You should do that more often," Lance said, breaking into his thoughts and away from whatever he'd been chattering about but seconds before.

Keith wasn't even sure what he'd been saying. He glanced at Lance sidelong. "Do what?"

"Smile." As if responding contagiously, Lance grinned himself. "You've got a really nice smile. Drag all the ladies' attention, I'd bet. You should definitely do it more often."

Keith shook his head. He'd been all but forced to accept such strange flattery from Lance as well, even though they'd made him uncomfortable. Initially, anyway. "Is this your attempt at a compliment?" He asked.

"It's not an attempt, man. That's what I'm doing. No shame."

"You wouldn't have any."

"There's nothing wrong with complimenting a pretty face," Lance said, reaching up with a smirk to poke Keith's cheek.

Keith rolled his eyes. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"I'm not compliment-starved, Lance. You don't have to tell me I'm pretty every other second."

Lance's smirk only grew more pronounced. "Who says I'm complimenting for your sake? It's called flirting, Keith. Surely you've heard of it before."

Keith rolled his eyes once more. Once, such a comment would have confused him. He would have been disconcerted to have anyone compliment him, let alone openly admit they were flirting. But Lance was different. It never really seemed genuine with him, especially given that he did just such a thing with almost everyone. Keith tried not to let that bother him too much, even if it was a little disheartening to see after he'd reached the conclusion that he maybe, just a little, liked Lance. Maybe Lance was simply teasing him because he'd realised, but that didn't make the situation feel any better. Keith had never felt such a thing before, but it didn't feel particularly good.

So Keith simply ignored it. Or at least he pretended to.

"Are you going to your father's shop today?" He asked instead as they wove their way past the bus shelters and onto the strip of sidewalk peppered with students, businessmen and women ,and the occasional non-working adult. "You didn't go yesterday either."

Lance shrugged, an awkward motion considering he didn't drop his arm from Keith's shoulders. "No, not today. Tomorrow I'm going to spend the whole afternoon there."

"Oh. Okay."

"You can come with me," Lance suggested. "I don't know why you avoid my offer so persistently. It's a nice shop, if I do say so myself."

Keith knew why. Of course he knew why, and it had very little to do with the shop itself. The thought of meeting Lance's father, someone important to him that he would have to make a good impression with as Lance's 'friend', terrified Keith just a little. It wasn't only because he'd realised he liked Lance, either. He was fairly sure he'd be just as nervous if Shiro had asked him to meet his father.

Which he wouldn't. Shiro's situation with his father was sensitive to say the least.

"It's not that," Keith muttered.

"I know, I know," Lance said with a dramatic sigh. "But I swear, I'll do a good job of it. I'm not bad, really. Actually kind of a professional."

"You're not qualified enough to call yourself a professional barber," Keith reasoned. "And no, I don't want you cutting my hair."

"Why not?" Lance asked, reaching his hand up to tug at Keith's fringe. He had something of a fixation with hair, Keith had noticed, and he didn't think it was just because he worked at cutting it. He was always fiddling with Keith's hair. It was kind of weird. "I won't cut _all_ of it off."

"I happen to like it just how it is at the moment."

"Not that long hair doesn't suit you, because I don't think many people could pull it off quite like you do, but there's this thing called styling." Lance raised a pointed eyebrow at Keith that slipped into a smirk when Keith regarded him sidelong. "Have you ever heard of it?"

Biting back the smile that had been increasingly afflicting Keith in recent weeks, he shrugged beneath Lance's arm. Lance might just be throwing away an offhanded compliment that didn't mean anything, might even be teasing Keith with his casual flirting, but it was nice to hear all the same. "I might have."

"Oh, hallelujah, we have a miracle!" Lance exclaimed and actually broke out into laughter.

Keith snorted but he didn't protest. He liked it when Lance laughed, too. His innate brightness always seemed to redouble when he did.

It was cool that day, the afternoon chill of encroaching November creeping upon them as the temperature dropped below fifty degrees. Keith was almost appreciative of the persistent weight of Lance's arm; his own jacket was warm enough but he wouldn't complain about the extra warmth provided.

They found themselves at a café they'd frequented before, one which Lance claimed made "the best cappuccinos in all of New York". Keith didn't particularly like coffee himself, but he appreciated the warmth that swept over him as they stepped through the door. Blessed heat flooded him with every inhalation.

The café itself was buzzing with murmurs of conversation and clustered with people, which wasn't exactly ideal for Keith, but he'd grown used to it over the past few weeks. It was impossible not to know Lance, to befriend him of a sort, without being surrounded by people most of the time. Regardless of whether Keith chose to be around Lance, he was more often than not shadowing Keith and where Lance went noise and people followed.

"What do you want?" Keith asked as they fell into line behind half a dozen others gradually easing from their cold-induced tension and hunched shoulders.

Lance glanced towards him and scrunched his nose in that way that was growing almost ridiculously familiar to Keith. Maybe he really was spending too much time with Lance. Though it was mostly not of his own intention, it was happening regardless. "I can get my own coffee, Keith."

"I know you can," Keith said, already pulling out his wallet as they shuffled forwards in the stunted queue. He stepped sideways slightly until he brushed into Lance to avoid the press of a passing body. "What do you want? Or should I even ask? It's always the same."

Lance opened his mouth to reply but paused and pressed his lips together a moment later. Keith knew why. He knew enough about Lance's situation from their past weeks together to understand where the controversy lay. Lance's family wasn't well off. More than that, they were struggling for every dollar, and despite anything Lance might wish to – and did – do, they didn't seem on the verge of climbing out of that struggle any time shortly. Keith never mentioned it, even if he wasn't blind enough to overlook something so obvious. It would be crude to do so, and Lance wouldn't appreciate pity. He likely wouldn't even appreciate sympathy.

He wouldn't appreciate Keith so flatly refusing to let him buy something as simple as a coffee either, but then Keith didn't have to tell him why he was doing it. There was no harm in simply accepting a favour.

"Are you making fun of me?" Lance finally asked as they shuffled forwards another step.

"No," Keith said.

"So you're not making any untoward insinuations?"

"No?"

A pause, and then Lance was frowning slightly as he said, "Is that sarcasm?"

Keith blinked. "No. Why?"

Sighing, Lance shook his head. "Sometimes I feel like I'll never be able to pick it with you." He didn't protest further when Keith ordered their coffee, however, only thanking him when he did.

They stood to the side in wait alongside their similar clients and fell to idle conversation. Or, more correctly, Lance talked and Keith contributed when he felt it was necessary to reply. Unlike Lance, Keith didn't always feel the need to comment at every possible opportunity. Maybe it was a habit maintained from his years of voicelessness. Lance, on the other hand, had something of a habit of talking. A lot. About anything. He seemed to have an opinion on every subject under the sun.

When their number was called, Lance was the one that jumped forwards and started across the room towards the girl that slid a pair of paper cups towards them. Naturally, despite the girl being in a visible hurry, Lance caught her in a moment of conversation, bright smile spread and tone audibly joking from a distance. Even if his words were muffled, Keith knew from his casual, slouching stance that he was flirting. In an instant, he had the girl laughing, shaking her head with a mirroring grin plastered on her face.

She was pretty, Keith thought. Unfortunately.

Lance was at his side in an instant, sparing a glance over his shoulder for the girl before they started from the café and into the cooling evening. He handed Keith his coffee wordlessly as they started down the street, weaving through pedestrians.

Lance talked. He always talked and seemed unable to hold his tongue sometimes. Or at least that was how Keith saw it. But this time Keith wasn't quite so inclined to reply. He was confused, as he so often was when he saw Lance like that. The girl _had_ been pretty, and he wasn't so oblivious as to think that Lance wasn't flirting with her wit just a little sincerity. Lance flirted with just about everyone, after all. It was simply what he did.

Still, it didn't feel any better to watch for knowing what it was that he was doing. Not at all.

"… can definitely score as a leftie as well, but he doesn't think he's got the talent, and you're not even listening to me, are you?"

Catching the tail end of Lance's words, Keith glanced up from where he'd been unconsciously frowning at the sidewalk before him. "What?"

"You weren't. You really weren't. And about something that's so important to me." Lance shook his head with false solemnity. "Keith, I'm hurt. Truly hurt."

"What were you talking about?" Keith asked.

"Nope, the moment's gone." Pausing as they divided around a young family with a stroller trundling between them, Lance fell back into step at Keith's side. "What's got you bummed, Red?"

Red. How often in a day Lance called him such Keith couldn't even count. He didn't know why and hadn't particularly liked the nickname being used in real life at first, but like everything with Lance it had somehow grown upon him. How, he didn't know, but maybe Lance was right. Maybe persistence really did pay off. Maybe Lance was onto something.

Shaking his head, Keith took a deliberate sip of his coffee. "Nothing."

"It's not nothing. You weren't listening to me _and_ you were frowning."

"And not listening to you is a crime now, is it?"

"You were frowning, too."

Keith glanced back towards him. It was hard not to look at Lance most of the time. He was bright. He was so expressive it was like a screenplay danced across his face every second he spoke. His smile was infectiously good-humoured and there was simply something about the way he looked at Keith that made it impossible at time to turn away from him. Keith had thought at first, perhaps a little foolishly when he'd first realised he _liked_ Lance, that it had been _something_. He hadn't wanted anything, not with anyone, not after what had happened with Tomas six years ago. He'd all but sworn not to get close to anyone, but Lance made it very hard to cling to that commitment.

Why Lance was the exception, Keith didn't know. Maybe it was simply because he refused to be anything other than exceptional.

"It's nothing," he repeated, but with little hope in bypassing the conversation this time.

Predictably, Lance hummed his discontent and nudged Keith with an elbow. "Why don't we just skip all this dancing crap and have you tell me, yeah? You know you're going to."

"I don't think so."

"You are."

"You're very confident in yourself."

"I'm always confident. It's a gift."

"A gift of stupidity, maybe."

"Keith. Please tell me."

The way he said it made it was impossible for Keith not to reply, which was saying something because Keith considered himself nothing if not practiced at evasion. Aside from that, he wasn't used to opening up to people, but Lance had demonstrated a trend of forbidding Keith's 'dancing crap' as he so called it. Keith wasn't aware of any dancing on his part but apparently his unconscious inclination to deflect was a well-practiced work of art.

"It's just…" Keith detachedly bit his lower lip, frown deepening. His gaze dropped to the sidewalk as they continued into the slowly darkening evening. "You were flirting with that girl."

Lance was silent for so long that Keith couldn't help but glance towards him. When he did, it was to see Lance's mouth fallen open slightly, his eyebrows risen so high they'd nearly disappeared into his hairline. "What?" He asked dumbly.

"Weren't you?" Keith asked

"I… what?" Lance seemed to struggle to produce words for perhaps the first time in his life. "What are you talking about?"

"You were, weren't you?" Keith repeated. He felt something like annoyance welling within him, unexpected and unappreciated, and didn't know how to get rid of it. He didn't even know where it came from. Keith wasn't quite sure how he knew he liked Lance, or that it was in a way that was different to the friendship he had with Shiro or any of the rest of the paladins. He'd never had much to do with either kind of liking, had never _wanted_ much to do with either, but this… Lance _was_ different. Keith had always had difficulty with hiding when he disliked something. This was just another thing.

Lance visibly swallowed, eyes blinking rapidly. "I guess. But I flirt with everyone. So what?"

Keith turned his gaze back to his coffee cup and slowly shook his head. He kept his mind focused on the deliberate act of stepping one foot after the other. "I don't know."

"Keith? What is it? Is it embarrassing you? Because if it is, I'm sorry, man, but it's in my genes and I can't not –"

"I guess jealousy probably wouldn't be the right word, but it kind of feels like that."

Keith spoke more to himself than to Lance but Lance's words stuttered to a halt nonetheless. When he managed to continue, his voice was choked. "W-what did you say?"

Keith glanced at him sidelong again and was surprised to see him vanished. Pausing in step, Keith turned to find Lance had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk a few feet behind him. "What?"

"You just – how could you just -?" Lance's mouth was hanging open again. "How can you say something like that so bluntly?"

"Like what?"

"Like _that?"_ Lance said, waving a hand at Keith in an entirely inexplicable gesture.

Keith frowned. He wasn't entirely sure what Lance was talking about but… "Aren't you the one that flirts with everyone?"

"That's different to just saying something like what you did."

"What did I just say that's so weird?"

"That you were jealous!"

Lance's words were an exclamation, almost indignant, and several passers-by glanced briefly towards him. Keith didn't care. He found himself growing only more confused. "I said it probably wasn't jealousy. Probably closer to envy, actually."

"Envy?"

"I mean, I don't think I have a right to be jealous because it's not like we're dating or anything."

Lance was staring at him as though he'd just spouted that aliens existed and one was most likely his parent. Keith was surprised that he hadn't dropped his coffee for the laxness of his fingers. Pedestrians flowed around them, all but ignored, and the chill of the surrounding wind had settled upon Keith by the time Lance finally continued. It wasn't in the manner Keith had anticipated, either. "Keith, do you like me?"

Keith frowned again. What kind of a question was that? If something that was so foreign to Keith was so obvious even to him, surely Lance would have noticed too. If he really didn't like Lance, he wouldn't have kept speaking to him in the first place.

Acknowledging what was disliked was one thing, but what he liked? To do so would invoke that horrible vulnerability and Keith didn't like doing that. Just like he wouldn't have let Lance stick around and force his company upon him no matter how hard he tried if he didn't want it at least a little bit. Keith's own words of weeks before, in Hunk's little kitchen and in the midst of idle conversation, resounded once more. About forced company. About it sometimes, just sometimes, being okay.

Keith had never wanted company before and yet with Lance… he didn't _not_ want it. He didn't not want it at all.

"Of course I like you," he finally said.

"No, but – I mean _like_ me," Lance said, taking a slight, shuffling step towards Keith. "I mean as more than a friend."

Keith blinked, nodding slowly. Was Lance really only just realising it? How was it not obvious to him? Surely he'd noticed that Keith thought of him differently to how he did other people. Surely that much was apparent. Wasn't it? "Yes? I thought you knew that."

Lance shook his head just as slowly as Keith had nodded. "No. I really didn't."

"I thought you knew and were just teasing me when you flirted with me."

"You realised I was actually flirting with you?" Lance asked. He was so dumbfounded that even Keith recognised it. "I thought you were oblivious."

Keith folded his arms indignantly, a geture somewhat inhibited by his coffee cup. "I'm not that clueless. You're pretty obvious. But – you mean you seriously didn't realise I liked you? I thought _that_ was obvious."

"Well, it wasn't."

"I did think it was a little uncharacteristically cruel of you to flirt with other people too if you knew, but…" Keith trailed off. Now he was even more confused. Was _Lance_ the oblivious one? "You don't like me the same way, though, do you, Lance?"

Lance stared at him for a long pause, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. It was so long that Keith actually felt himself grow uncomfortable with the silence, which was such an unexpected feeling that he almost didn't recognise his discomfort for what it was.

Then a smile stretched slow and wide across Lance's face, and despite his unfamiliar discomfort, Keith felt himself ease just a little. Lance shook his head. "Look, I didn't know you felt like you do, but if you _do_ …" Crossing the distance between them, Lance reached for Keith and, before Keith knew quite what was happening, Lance was grasping his free hand in his own. "I think this might just be the best day of my life."

Keith didn't know what Lance meant by that. Not really. He could guess, but that guess seemed a little far-reaching. Except that Lance curled his fingers around his own and, as strangely unfamiliar as it was to be held in such a way, strange as so many things were with Lance, Keith couldn't draw his hand away. It felt different to how he usually poked at Keith, to how he slung his arm around his shoulders or even how he plucked at his hair every so often. It felt different in a good way.

And when Lance grinned at him more widely than Keith had ever seen and dragged him down the street after him at a rapid step, he couldn't quite help but smile back. Just for a moment, everything felt right. It probably wouldn't last long because Keith knew nothing really did, but… just for a moment

* * *

_A word from the moderator:_

_Greetings, members of Voltron. I would like to speak a word of thanks to each and every person who has participated in this program – you have made it possible to rise from the ground where it once lay._

_However, due to recent complaints of invasions of privacy and the abuse of the regionalisation of members into specific chatrooms, we the moderators have reached the regretful decision that Voltron must shut down. Action to proceed with this decision will occur one week hence from the delivery of this message._

_We apologise for any distress or anger this may cause, but given the repeated incidences of this program and the reports that have been received of a concerning nature, we the moderators have decided that such dissolution of Voltron is the most appropriate action to take._

_We appreciate the time invested for your participation and regret that we were forced to resort to such measures. It has been a pleasure affiliating with you all._

_With regrets,_

_Goodbye._


	11. Cleaving Together

_14/11 – 02.17pm_

Stupidly, Hunk forgot to turn his phone's vibration off. Stupidly, but he would be thankful for his stupidity later. He would regret that he hadn't turned it off silent when he was fully awoken by the first notification that buzzed through.

It was too early for him when it came. Too early after work. Hunk did wake to it blearily, for he'd taught himself years ago how to drag himself from sleep when he heard a sound for his mom's sake. When he squinted at his phone and clicked the screen to life to find it was only two o'clock in the afternoon, however, he dropped it again and slumped back onto his pillow. He'd been asleep for barely three hours.

The next buzz came through an indiscernible time later and Hunk ignored it. And the next one. And the next one, too. It became an almost constant buzzing that made Hunk, in the depths of his sleep, _swear_ to get the vibration forcibly _cut_ _out_ of his phone at the earliest possible opportunity. He hauled himself upright onto his pillows once more, fumbled for his phone on his nightstand, and clicked it to life once more.

The list of notifications trailed off the screen and as Hunk squinted through the abusive light so vibrantly contrasting his dark room, it was to see another notification buzz through. Then another. And another.

_Sharpshooter18 has posted on Voltron._

_Sharpshooter18 has posted on Voltron._

_Red has posted on Voltron._

_Sharpshooter18 has posted on Voltron._

_DiffWizard has posted on Voltron._

_DiffWizard has posted on Voltron._

_BlackLion007 has posted on Voltron…_

The list went on and on, and as Hunk scrolled to the top on his phone he shook his head. "Come on, guys," he muttered to himself. "I hate to be a party-pooper, but can't you just let a man sleep?"

Truth be told, he was more surprised than indignant that Voltron was suddenly a cesspool of activity. Since they'd come to meet one another, since they'd spoken in person, exchanged phone numbers all around and sent text messages at every other moment, Voltron had become almost redundant. Almost, but not quite, and not only because it held a certain place in each of their hearts as being where they'd all met. And further, because Princess was still there. She hadn't been very active of late, and Hunk was a little sad to consider that perhaps she was losing interest in them – sad but also a little happy too, because maybe it meant that she was receiving friendship and support elsewhere.

Because of that, when Hunk saw the sheer amount of notifications from all of the paladins except the Princess, he couldn't help but blink himself into proper wakefulness. He scrolled through the notifications, past the few that indicated he'd instead received a call or two from Lance, and filed to the top. It was astounding how many there were. Certainly far more than usual.

Then Hunk reached the top, saw the message from someone who called themself a moderator, and clicked it open. As he read, he felt himself freeze, his heart all but stilling in his chest.

"What?" He asked aloud.

Then he read the message again.

Barely three months Voltron had been up and running. Apparently it was riddled with a multitude regionalised chatrooms located across the US and further, and from what Hunk had read it was well liked by the right people. A select type of people, but a group nonetheless. But this… what the message said, this meant…

It was closing down?

For Hunk, the support he'd unconsciously sought from Voltron was all but wholly satisfied. His circumstances themselves weren't necessarily better, and though he didn't begrudge it, Hunk didn't expect them too be. He had a mom to look after, a job that chewed through eight hours of his day – and odd hours at that – and he slept most days away because of those odd hours. He barely contacted his old friends, let alone saw them, because while they weren't cruel people, none quite had the time or motivation to put to accommodating his inconsistency. Besides, most of them were still in school.

Hunk frequently wished he was still in school. He'd wished it more times than he could count.

But Voltron was different. The paladins were different. They hadn't questioned his need for accommodation for they'd never known anything otherwise. They didn't sigh with regret when he couldn't meet with them because he had to be up at two o'clock the next morning for work. They didn't silently begrudge that he often brought his mom along to their catch-ups because he couldn't force his gran to be her carer all the time. Some things just weren't possible and Hunk wouldn't do it.

He knew that even without Voltron they would still be there, but at the sight of the message he felt like he'd been punched in the gut by an iron fist. Voltron meant something to him. It meant something to all of them.

Clambering out of his bed and nearly tripping over his blankets, Hunk dialled Lance's number and held his phone to his ear as he stumbled from his bedroom into the hallway. He paused in step as Lance picked up after barely a single ring.

"Hunk? Finally, man, where have you been?"

"Sleeping," Hunk said by way of explanation. Which it was, really; Lance might protest his absence but he never complained for the reason.

"Fuck, Hunk, did you read what happened?"

"I read it."

"Some asshole moderator's shutting us down!"

"I know, I read it." Hunk squeezed his eyes closed. It was something that so many would see as trivial, but it truly hurt to consider. Voltron was… Voltron was _their_ chatroom. Their world of sorts, the place they'd all met.

"What do we do? I mean, like, what do we do?" Lance sounded as distressed as Hunk felt. His voice was borderline hysterical.

 _At least I'm not the only one,_ Hunk thought. Leaning against the wall, Hunk dropped his head backwards to draw his gaze to the ceiling. "I don't know. What can we do?"

"Hey, are you at home?"

Hunk frowned at the sudden jump in topic. Besides, Lance knew his schedule well enough by now. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

"I'm kind of already on my way over. Papá kicked me out of the shop because apparently I was making the clients nervous or some shit 'cause I was 'upset'. Anyway, I've grabbed Keith and we're heading your way. Is that alright?"

Hunk nodded into his phone. He could understand the sudden desire to be around his fellow paladins. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be… that'd be really good, actually."

"Thanks. We'll see you in a few. We're literally only a couple of blocks away."

"Okay. See you."

Lance hung up a moment later and Hunk was left to slump heavily against the wall. His fingers were trembling slightly as he lowered his phone from his ear, and he was surprised in a detached sense. Was he that scared?

Short answer: yes.

The longer answer was a little more complicated but amounted to the same thing. Hunk didn't want this to end. The past few months with his moments of escape into Voltron had been the best he'd had in… well, in what felt like a long time. It had been a struggle since his mom's first stroke, and even more with each since. That struggle had only grown more pronounced with each passing year, each month, each day, even. Hunk needed his friends and Voltron was what had given them to him.

 _Everything's alright,_ he thought unconsciously. _Everything's fine as long as Mom is okay_. It was the mantra that Hunk had been encouraging himself with for years. He registered only detachedly that its fortification didn't stand quite so strongly in as it usually did that afternoon.

Staggering down the dimly lit hallway – it was always dimly lit, for his gran was diligently considerate like that – he stumbled into the kitchen and all but collapsed into a seat at the table. Dropping his head into his hands, Hunk exhaled heavily.

"My goodness, that's a heavy sigh if ever I've heard one, my boy," his gran said from across the room.

Dragging his head up from his hands, Hunk met her gaze as she glanced towards him. She was bustling around the kitchen, preparing an early dinner as she was want to do before she left for the evening. Hunk's mom was seated across the table from him and he spared her a glanced too, a feeble smile that went seemingly without reply, before turning back to his gran. "Hm."

"What does 'hm' mean, exactly?" His gran said, turning towards him and propping her hands on her hips, fisted chef's knife and all. "And what are you doing up this early, might I ask? It's not even five o'clock yet."

Hunk loved his gran. His love for her was rivalled only by the love he felt for his mom. His gran had been the only one had stuck by him over the years of his mom's deterioration. She'd been his support, his comfort, his second mom after his first couldn't stand up to the role anymore. Fae Garrett was a force to be reckoned with, could boss the pants off of anyone – and did at every opportunity – and Hunk adored her.

At that moment, however, it wasn't his gran he needed. He simply wanted his friends.

Apparently his silence spoke for him, for his gran frowned as, pushing away from the kitchen counter, she started towards him. With all the affection that could possibly be instilled in the gesture, she prodded his shoulder. "Tell my what's wrong, my boy. You're looking awfully down. Can I get you some breakfast?"

"Technically I think it's closer to most people's dinnertime," Hunk said, falling into the formulaic conversation they shared nearly every evening. His gran always fussed and in the midst of cooking a dinner that she insisted she make despite Hunk's own culinary skills, she still tried to rustle him up something to eat. Much of the time it was something extravagant; Hunk's family had a gift and a love for cooking. She, like his mom, had always thought that a full belly could cured just about any ailment. Unfortunately for Hunk, he didn't have a whole lot of confidence in such an assumption himself.

"I'll bake you up an omelette to have, I think," his gran said, abandoning her chopping and the diced vegetables that dotted the counter and bustling to the fridge. "Dinner won't be ready for some time so I'll just have the pot simmering when I leave tonight. But we'll get some eggs and cheese into you. Cheese will cure anything, it will."

Hunk couldn't help but smile at that, even if it didn't suit his mood. "Thanks, Gran," he said.

To the smell of baking omelette and melted cheese, Hunk lost himself briefly in his thoughts. It could have been his imagination – and likely was – but he thought his mom watched him from across the table with a questioning light to her otherwise blank expression. He shook his head. "I'm alright," he murmured. "Everything's alright. Lance and Keith will be coming over soon. Talking with them will make it better I think."

"What was that?" His gran asked, turning with a spatula raised in her hand this time.

"Nothing, Gran. Just talking to myself."

His gran nodded. "The best of us do. But did you say that those two boys were coming over again? The loud one and the quiet one."

The loud one and the quiet one. Her descriptions might not be particularly wholesome or accurate in Hunk's opinion – Lance could grow quiet when thoughtful and Keith wasn't as inclined to silence as he sometimes appeared – but it was how she identified them. His gran wasn't nearly as hard of hearing as she pretended to be.

Hunk nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. It was sort of last minute."

"I'll say it's last minute," his gran grumbled, turning back to the stovetop. "Very last minute. Now I'll have to cook for another two teenagers."

"Gran, you don't have to cook for them. They wouldn't be expecting –"

"I don't care what they'll be expecting. No growing boys are going to enter my daughter's house at dinner time without a plate served to them."

Hunk didn't argue further. It was often best not to argue with his gran; she was a strong-willed woman.

The doorbell rang not five minutes later, and Hunk was lurching from his seat in an instant. "I'll get it," he called over his shoulder to his gran as he hastened to the front door. He'd barely pulled it open before Lance was all but bowling him over to enter.

"You read it, right?" He asked immediately, as though he hadn't asked just that question barely minutes before. He looked a frazzled mess, his hair sticking up as though he'd run his hands through it multiple times, his face was pinched with tension.

Hunk nodded, stepping aside to allow him to fall fully through the door. "I read it. And it's shit. Hi, Keith," he added as Keith slipped through the doorway in Lance's wake.

They followed Hunk back to the kitchen and Lance and Keith greeted his gran and mom in turn in varying volumes. His gran turned towards them and there must have been something about their mutual tension, a tension that had rapidly taken a hold of Hunk too, that alerted her to their distress. She glanced between the three of them before pointing her spatula to the living room. "You all need to take a seat. Away from Maggie, too, so you don't upset her. Sit down and I'll bring you something to eat."

"We're fine, Fae," Lance said, who Hunk doubted would be able to sit down for more than a second. He was all but pacing around the room with visible jitters and likely would have properly had Hunk's gran not been standing in his path of doing so. "Really, we're –"

"Not hungry," Keith finished for him. For himself, he was standing just inside the kitchen doorway, arms typically folded across his chest. It was a usual gesture for Keith, but Hunk thought it appeared a little more like he was hugging himself than expressing the stubborn stoicism he more frequently adopted. Which was strange, Hunk registered. He'd automatically assumed that all of the rest of the paladins would be upset just like he was, but seeing it in Keith was something else. Keith was, by and large, the embodiment of blankness. He seemed to strive to be just that most of the time. It said really something if even he was shaken enough to show concern.

Despite Lance and Keith's objection, however, Hunk's gran wasn't having any of it. She pinned Keith with a stare while pointing her spatula at Lance. "You'll sit and you'll eat. Both of you boys are too skinny. It's probably half of the reason you're so upset. Now, out of my kitchen." And with a sweep of her free hand, she chased them from the room.

Hunk took a heavy seat on the couch. So did Keith, and Lance a moment later at his side, though he was twitching so much on his cushion that Hunk doubted he took any ease in the position. He was the first one to speak, too. "What should we do?"

Hunk turned towards him, scrubbing a hand across his face. He felt tired but that tiredness wasn't from lack of sleep. He doubted he'd be able to sleep if he went back to bed anyway. "I don't know. What can we do? You guys talked to Shiro, didn't you?"

"Yes," Keith said. "And Pidge. The Princess wasn't there, though."

Frowning, Hunk nodded his understanding. It didn't surprise him that she wasn't, even if it did sadden him a little. "What did they say?"

"Pidge reckons he's going to go on a rampage," Lance said. He was jiggling his leg so much that at his side Keith was being jostled by the movement along with him. He didn't seem to even notice, let alone mind. "Send a message to this moderator guy and get him to fuck off."

"He's a moderator," Keith said, frowning at his knees. "I don't think they just 'fuck off'."

"So? They can't just shut it down."

"Actually, I think they can. That's the kind of power they hold."

Lance didn't argue further with that. Instead, he simply leaned into Keith with a groan and dropped his forehead onto his shoulder. Keith didn't seemed bothered by the gesture. Far from it, he responded by nudging his knee into Lance's just slightly.

That had changed. That was just one thing that had become of their paladins, something that wouldn't have been possible without Voltron. In the past, Lance might have sought to further the argument as a way of alleviating his frustration. He might even continue at some point, but right then he simply took comfort in the fact that Keith was next to him.

Had Hunk met either of them apart, he wouldn't have thought they would fit so well together, but they did. And they were. Even in the midst of his concern, Hunk could register what he saw and felt himself soften for it. He was upset about Voltron, but seeing Lance and Keith together, _actually_ together, just as he'd rapidly realised was a possibility the more he saw them over the past weeks, was heartening.

If he was being honest with himself, despite his voiced suspicions to Pidge, Hunk wouldn't have expected it of Keith especially, because Keith didn't seem like the type of person to let people get close to him. Certainly not after what had happened the first time they'd visited Shiro's house; Hunk had been almost convinced he'd up and disappear as soon as he was released by Shiro from Hunk's house. But then, Lance wasn't the type of person to be left behind. He'd never seemed likely to let anyone stop him from getting close. Maybe they were perfect for each other in that regard.

Besides, Hunk had seen them kiss. Just the once and only briefly of what he _hoped_ was more often, but he was fairly sure that meant what he thought it did. At any other time, the sight of Lance showing even the hint of such intimate affection as he did would have had him grinning like an idiot. But not then. Hunk had rarely felt less like smiling, and he didn't like to think about those times. Not ever.

"What about Shiro, then?" He asked, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. "Did he say anything?"

Lance raised his head to drop his chin onto Keith's shoulder instead. "He suggested we talk to the moderator as well, but not to bully him or anything like Pidge said. That we'd ask him what was going on and see if we could change anything that was going on or something."

"Do you think that will work?" Hunk asked. "If anyone could convince someone to stop what they're doing it would be Shiro, right?"

"Right," Lance agreed, though he didn't sound particularly hopeful. He groaned a moment later and dropped his forehead once more. "I don't want it to close down. And I know I sound childish so don't say anything, Keith –"

"I wasn't going to," Keith said.

"- but it's important. This had been… I mean, it's been awesome, hasn't it?"

Hunk wasn't sure who Lance was talking to specifically, but he nodded anyway. He could agree to that at least and he didn't think he was the only one. At his side, Keith nodded too and Hunk didn't even have it in him to marvel at that moment. Maybe he should have; they'd come a long way from the days when Keith would deny ever liking anything but the colour red.

"I know," Hunk said, slumping back into his seat. He felt defeated and couldn't for the life of him think of what to do. He didn't have the assertiveness that bordered on aggression that Pidge possessed. He didn't have the mediating abilities of Shiro either, or the ability to simply demand an answer out of desperation like Lance. He couldn't silently wait like Keith and then stick his opinion in where it counted, either. He couldn't even look on the logically analytical side as the Princess frequently did. Everyone said that Hunk was the one who looked on the bright side, but…

"I guess we could hope for the best?" He offered without much hope himself. "There's not really much we can do, is there?"

Lance groaned once more, but it was Keith who turned towards Hunk and met his gaze with his sharply intent stare. He didn't speak for a moment, but when he did it was with a quiet force. "No, there likely isn't. But even if worst comes to worst and it does shut down, it's not like it will be the end of us. We'll still be the Princess' paladins. That won't change."

It might have sounded ridiculous to anyone else, that they had and likely always would refer to themselves as paladins, but to Hunk it was just a little heartening. He'd never seen Keith as a particularly positive person; practical, realistic, as sceptical as Pidge, certainly, but not optimistic. And yet this was definitely looking on the bright side of the situation. At least in this instance, Keith was definitely doing a better job of striving for optimism than Hunk was.

Lance raised his head from Keith's shoulder once more, peering up at his face sidelong. Though his face was still tight, the discontent in his eyes softened slightly. "See? I knew you cared."

"I never said I didn't," Keith replied, glancing towards him.

"You never said you did either, but I had faith."

"I'm so happy for that."

"That was sarcasm."

"Yes, it was."

Hunk's gran swept into the room moments later and it was with a handing out of plates steaming with freshly baked Florentine omelette that she came, reprimanding as she did for the heavy mood and ordered that they, "Eat your food and feel better." Then she disappeared into the kitchen again, her heavy footsteps replaced by the sound of chopping and her murmuring to Hunk's mom. She, like Hunk, often simply spoke to his mom. It was comforting to think their words were still heard, even if she didn't respond.

Hunk didn't have much of an appetite, and clearly neither did Lance or Keith, but he picked his fork and took a bite as he knew his gran would return and urge him to do if he didn't. Following his example, his friends picked up their own and began picking at their meals too. It wouldn't do to leave Grandma Fae with an excuse to scold them all for negligence of their bellies.

Barely a minute later, however, and as Hunk was almost convinced that a full stomach might help the situation, they were interrupted by a communal buzzing of phones. Hunk wasn't used to pausing in his meals to receive correspondences – neither his mom or his gran had ever approved of the use of technology at the dinner table – so he was slower to respond than both Keith and Lance. He didn't even lower his fork as they both dropped their own to extract phones from pockets and click screens to life.

It took a long time for them both to read the message, and when they did neither responded. Not verbally, anyway, nor in any attempt to make a reply. The expressions that drew across their faces weren't reassuring, however. Keith's fell into a mask of pale blankness while Lance's all but crumpled upon itself.

"What is it?" Hunk asked, dropping his fork to his plate with a clink. "What happened? Did the moderators say -?"

"It's not the moderators," Keith said quietly.

"What?" Hunk replied, juggling his plate as he fumbled for his own phone.

"It's not the worst that could happen," Lance said, his voice a little broken, a little distance. Hunk paused in his reaching to spare him a glance. His face was paled too, eyes locked on the screen of his phone. "Voltron shutting down, it's… it's not the worst that could happen."

Hunk didn't understand what Lance meant. He didn't understand until he finally clicked into the latest message on their Voltron chatroom and saw the message typed in an unfamiliar orange text from a name he didn't recognise.

Then he realised: Lance was right. Voltron's collapse wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Not by far.

* * *

_WimbletonSmythe: To the paladins of Voltron._

_I'm sorry, I'm not entirely sure of the protocol of conducting oneself on Voltron. Or online for that matter at all. As such, I'm sorry for the rather rude intrusion. But I have a request for you all._

_But first, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe. You likely haven't heard of me as I don't think that my little princess would have thought to mention me. She's always been a little shy of the fact that she has a butler of sorts at her disposal._

_But I'm getting side-tracked. I don't know if any of you will believe me, but I speak on behalf of my little princess Allura. She would never ask you all herself so I'm asking for her. I don't know how much she's told to you all of her circumstances so I suppose it would be possible for you not to know that she is unwell. She doesn't like to speak of that much too._

_But Allura is very sick. She's very, very sick, and the day after tomorrow she'll be going in for surgery that could just as likely be miraculous as it could be disastrous. Very disastrous. And she is scared, even if she won't admit it to me. I know my Allura. I can understand when she won't admit something to me._

_You might not have heard of her illness and you might not have heard of me either, but I've heard of all of you. Allura has spoken of each of you to me. She adores you all, and I can only thank you for what you've given her and how you've helped her when she has been in need of it. The doctors always say that a positive support system and a positive outlook are in many ways just as important as medical treatment. I can see that. I've seen it because Allura changed after she met you all._

_I need your help, paladins, and I hope that you'll live up to the reputation that Allura has given you all. Now more than ever she needs her friends' support. I was hoping, if it wasn't too much to ask, if you might be able to come and visit her before the surgery? I know it's a lot to ask, but she needs all the help she can get. I think that, if she had you all waiting for her on the other side, it might just help her to pull through._

_Please let me know your thoughts and if you are willing. I'd be more than happy to drive anyone to the hospital who is able to come._

_Thank you._

* * *

When the sleek black car pulled up on the sidewalk out the front of Hunk's house, Shiro was almost surprised that Pidge agreed to climb in. Regardless of everything, Pidge still maintained that his precaution when considering strangers was a valid one, and Shiro couldn't deny that. Climbing into a stranger's car with only the reassurance of a message they'd been sent by Voltron should have triggered alarm bells.

It hadn't. Apparently Pidge apparently deemed some things more important.

He wasn't the only one. Hunk left his mother at home to travel to the hospital with them. Lance extracted himself from his afternoon of working at his father's shop to accompany them. Keith didn't protest even a word, though Shiro knew he wasn't one to interact with people in general, let alone those he didn't know.

They all came. All of them dropped everything because Allura needed their help. Whether she knew they were coming or not, they would all be at her bedside.

Shiro had known she'd been in a hospital. He'd known just as Allura had known about his own admission. He'd known she was chronically unwell as well, for she'd mentioned almost offhandedly that it was far from being her first admission, and that it was bad at that for on one occasion had said that it was 'a long one this time'. Shiro hadn't asked what it was, though. Allura hadn't offered, and he wouldn't pry. Some things just weren't meant to be shared.

But now she was in a serious condition. Surgery, Coran had told them.

Shiro was scared. It was a different kind of fear to that he'd experienced before – different to being in the army, to fearing for his own life and that of his fellow soldiers, or the fear that arose from the loss of his arm. It was different to fearing his parents' disapproval, regardless of how irrational he knew that fear to be. It was different because it was terrifying to consider losing a friend in such a way. Even worse to think that, if Coran hadn't told him, Shiro might never have met Allura in person at all. Such a possibility was horrifying to contemplate.

When the car stopped before their little group, the engine had barely died when the driver's-side door was swinging open and a man was climbing out. He was physically distinctive, an older man with a crop of bright orange hair and matching handlebar moustache beneath a pronounced nose. He was dressed primly in a blue suit, but there wasn't anything truly professional about his address when he approached them.

"You!" He cried as he rounded the car. "It is all of you, isn't it? Goodness, I wasn't really convinced it would be all of you to – oh, quiznak!"

He cut himself short as he stumbled up the gutter in his haste to approach them, nearly tipping head over heels and all but windmilling his arms in an attempt to catch his balance. Shiro took an instinctive step forwards, reaching out to steady him, but the man who must have been Coran righted himself and straightened with a placating raise of both of his hands. "No! It's alright. I'm alright. Just lost my footing there for a moment, but nothing to fear."

He straightened and stood tall in front of them all, dragging his gaze across them. "My goodness, it's strange to actually see you all in person. I've heard so much about you from Allura."

"Allura…" Lance said slowly. "Allura's the Princess, right? She talks about us?"

Coran snapped his attention towards him and nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, she very much does. She's always telling me tales about the lot of you. You must be… hold on, let me get this." He raised a silencing finger, brow crinkling for a moment before smiling triumphantly. "You must be the Sharpshooter one, aren't you?"

"How did you even guess that?" Lance asked, frowning in what looked to be confusion more than wariness.

Coran ignored him to shift his attention towards Keith where he stood at Lance's side, arms folded and staring at Coran. "And I don't think it's too much of a leap to suppose you're Red? With the jacket and all. And you would be…" He pointed at Pidge with a considering expression for a moment.

Pidge stared up at him with a very pronounced challenge in his eyes. Shiro felt oddly proud to see it; he'd come quite a ways in confidence since when they'd first spoken of his gender fluidity. "Tread very carefully, Mister."

"DiffWitch!" Coran said abruptly. "Or is it DiffWizard? I'm sorry, is it wrong of me to ask?"

Pidge shrugged. "I'd rather you ask then not know at all. And he and him, if you'd be so kind."

"I would very much like to be. Which would make you Butterfingers," he pointed towards Hunk before turning towards Shiro, "and you Shiro."

"How come you know Shiro's name but not ours?" Lance asked a little indignantly.

Coran glanced his way once more. "Oh, that's only because Allura mostly calls Shiro by his name. It's almost harder to remember what your paladin name is at all."

"Special treatment? Should we be offended by this?" Lance said, glancing towards Keith who only shrugged.

Coran raised his hands in placation once more. "Oh, please don't be. It's just that Shiro told Allura his name… how long ago was it again, Shiro? A month or so now, isn't it?"

"Something like that," Shiro said. Then he gathered himself, shaking off his momentary stupor at Coran's overwhelming introduction. "You must be Coran?"

Coran spun his attention back towards Shiro from where he'd glanced towards the other paladins momentarily. He was a bouncy man, it would seem, radiating excess energy that was only emphasised by his rapid and slightly excessive nodding. If Shiro was to hazard a guess from a glance he would think him in his late forties if not fifties, but the way Coran beamed at his was with youthful enthusiasm. "That I am. And might I say, I am very appreciative to you all for meeting me. I didn't know if you would all actually come."

"We said we would," Keith said. "Did you expect us to lie to you?"

"After what Allura's told me of you all? Not really, but one can never be utterly certain."

"Where is she?" Hunk asked. "I mean, what hospital is she staying at? Is it nearby?"

Coran swung his excessively animated gaze back towards Hunk and nodded vigorously once more. "Yes, not too far at all. Just at NYSSH, actually, so barely around the corner."

"Nish is…?" Pidge began slowly.

"New York Sigan-Stead Hospital," Hunk clarified.

"I know what it stands for, I'm not that stupid," Pidge said, though without any real heat. "I just meant that it's not exactly just around the corner. That's a whole half a city away."

"That it is," Coran replied jovially. "So we'd better get cracking before visiting hours finish up. Shall we?"

No one protested. There was a pause of awkwardness where glances were exchanged before they all filed towards the black car and squeezed onto the plush pale seats within. There was surprisingly room to spare; apparently, despite his dubiousness, Coran had planned for requiring five seats. Within moments they were pulling away from the curb to the sound of their chauffeur's enthusiastic voice and slightly worrisome driving.

Shiro had never heard of Coran. That understanding surprised him a little as, sitting in the passenger seat alongside him and watching the man talk, Shiro realised that Coran had obviously heard all about each of them. It was just as apparent that he was very close to Allura, as he kept up a near constant and almost entirely one-sided conversation about "my little Allura" the entire trip there. Mostly of how sweet she yet silly she was for not calling upon her friends when she needed them, though Coran proclaimed he loved her for her silliness as well. Shiro learned more about Allura in that trip than he had in the entire time that he'd known her. Some things simply weren't those to be shared with a faceless someone online, regardless of how close they were.

That she'd lost her mother with her birth. That her father followed after when Allura was barely a teenager and Coran, as her father-appointed butler and bodyguard in shining armour, had stepped up to the role of caretaker because she had no one else and he'd always adored her. That she'd been a quiet girl who blossomed into a headstrong woman when she grew into her own, and that nothing but high regard had been afforded to her for her merits. She'd been set to go places, Coran said fondly, and her illness, one she'd had since birth and which had only exacerbated with age, was the only thing standing in her way of such fulfilment. Coran spoke with real heart, with true affection, and interruptions could only be made when one of them forced their way into the conversation.

More often than not, that person was Lance. Shiro appreciated that he had something of a gift for being able to seamlessly interrupt a conversation, regardless of how incessant it was. "You keep calling her 'your Allura'," he said at one point, all but overriding Coran's words about how proud he'd been when she'd graduated from college nearly six years ago. "Is she your girlfriend or something, then?"

Coran yelped and actual jerked the wheel of the car out of control slightly. Shiro grabbed instinctively for his seatbelt. He was beginning to think there was perhaps something wrong with the man, or at least with his erratic driving abilities. He seemed very flighty and the amount of near hits they'd grazed past already – each that Shiro had pointedly bitten his tongue at to avoid commenting on – was far from reassuring. Coran reasserted control over himself and his car in an instant, though to Pidge's muttered, "We're going to die. I think we're all going to die," and Hunk's, "At least we're on our way to a hospital."

"How ridiculous!" Coran exclaimed with a bubble of amused laughter, in his incredulous tone. He didn't appear to have heard Pidge or Hunk at all. "I'm nearly old enough to be her father."

"So?" Lance said, leaning forwards in his seat with a shrug to peer over the back of Coran's. "It doesn't really matter if you love her."

"Well, that's a very nice thought, I suppose, but no." Coran shook his head. "No, Allura is more like a younger sister to me. A beautiful, loving, caring, smart, absolutely wonderful –"

"I've never thought about any of my sisters like that before," Lance interrupted once more. Shiro mentally congratulated his manoeuvring skills. "The way you say it sounds more like you're in love."

"I can assure you, we very much aren't," Coran chuckled. "Love but not _in_ love, I suppose you could say. But why the interest, Lance? Allura did tell me you were prone to flirting on occasion."

"Yes, Lance, why the interest?" Keith said, and his voice was so mild that Shiro fathomed he'd never heard someone sound more dangerous. He glanced instinctively towards him only to see Keith's expression utterly blank and unnervingly unblinking stare trained upon Lance. Shiro hadn't ever needed to ask about the nature of their growing relationship, but had he needed clarification he thought their display was telling enough.

For himself, Lance hunched his shoulders slightly and glanced almost sheepishly towards Keith. "I'm not interested. I'm just wondering."

"Well, wonder away, my friend. You're more than welcome to. If you err in your assumptions, I'll be more than happy to correct you." Then Coran actually turned to twist slightly in his chair and beamed over his shoulder. Shiro had to force himself not to lunge instinctively for the steering wheel.

They survived the trip to the hospital. Surprisingly in Shiro's opinion, though he didn't say so aloud. Rather than all pile out of the car at the front entrance and flooding inside as Coran suggested, Hunk made the very considerate speculation that surprising Allura with a group of apparent strangers might not be the wisest decision. They waited on the curb for their guide to appear with what Shiro recognised as being his characteristically bouncing step. He led them through the double doors of the entrance with a wave of his hand and an energetic, "Come on!"

They were headed towards the private rooms. That was what Coran said. He also said, almost offhandedly, that given the amount of time Allura had spent at the hospital over the past year, it was more suitable for her than the rooms the signs stated were reserved for cardiology patients. Shiro felt something in his gut seize with Coran's words as they climbed from the elevator and passed into the relatively quiet wards of carpeted floors and pale walls reeking of chemical sterility. He'd known it was serious from Coran's chatter in the car, had suspected as much from what Allura had vaguely insinuated, but he'd still held hopes for otherwise. There was no escaping the reality of the situation now that it was thrust upon them, however. From the subdued silence of his friends around him, Shiro knew he wasn't the only one to think so.

Allura was sick. She was very sick.

Shiro was eager to meet her. He'd wanted to meet her for a long time, from before he'd even begun to meet the rest of his fellow paladins. Allura had been the first one he'd really begun to share with, the one he'd opened up to on more than just a friendly and superficial basis. It had grown profoundly deeper, into something _more._ That had changed as Shiro had grown to know the rest of his friends, both virtually and in person, but it still remained that Allura had been his closest friend before them.

He'd missed her. Over the past weeks, she'd been seen on Voltron less and less often, and it had worried Shiro. Even more so after what she'd said about her hospitalisation, for how could he not be? And now, to have his fearful suspicions confirmed… it was more than a little heartbreaking. Shiro only wished he'd asked Allura if he could visit her earlier. Coran had said she was going in to have her surgery the next day. If only Shiro had been more assertive, they could have had more time to truly meet her.

They paused outside of an unremarkable room, the door half open and a number on a metallic plate embedded in the left-hand wall. From where Shiro stood alongside his friends, all crowding around the doorway, he could make out a half closed curtain, the pale glow of evening light beaming through the window on the opposite wall, the foot of a bed. The sounds of beeps could be heard from where they stood in the hallway.

"Perhaps I'll just go and announce your arrival?" Coran stage-whispered. He may as well have just spoken in his normal tone for all the subtlety it afforded him. "Give her a little warning, yes?"

"I think that might be a good idea," Shiro agreed.

Coran nodded before, straightening and seeming to set his shoulders, he started into the room. "Allura?" he said, disappearing around the corner as he spoke. "Are you awake? Surely you've not gone to sleep already. I asked you to stay awake, didn't I? Because I have a surprise, yes?"

"Coran?" A weary, slightly muffled voice said, so quietly Shiro almost couldn't hear it. He caught the lilt of a British accent but little else. "No, I'm just resting. Did you say a surprise?"

"Yes, I did!" Shiro didn't think his joviality was really suitable for the clearly tired woman within the room and a glance at his friends, at Keith's raised eyebrows, Lance's pursed lips, Hunk's awkward shifting and Pidge's rolled eyes, he didn't think he was alone in his thoughts. He didn't speak to them, however. "It's the very best kind of surprise, too. Would you like to see?"

"I'm sure I'd be more than happy to see anything you wish to show me, Coran."

Coran appeared in the doorway a moment later, hands propping on the frame. He gestured with his head over his shoulder, smiling with genuine fondness, and for that single expression Shiro abruptly decided he liked Coran. Even with his appalling driving skills. "You can come in now."

Shiro led the way. Not because he wasn't hesitant but because the rest of his friends were more so. He wasn't quite nervous, but it was always a little strange to meet someone he knew but didn't _know_. He'd already done so four times, but it didn't make it any less surreal.

And sad, too, because of all places, meeting at the hospital bedside of his friend was far from ideal.

The room wasn't large but it was far more refined than any Shiro had stayed in himself. Self-contained, it boasted wide, pales walls, a television spread across most of one, and a pair of comfortable armchairs positioned around a table with several books stacked atop it. The bed consumed most of the rest of the room monitors and dangling drips idling around it, a machine beeping behind the headboard, and even in its simplicity it was larger, wider, seemingly infinitely more comfortable than those Shiro had been in. Those were real blankets. A real mattress, even.

Shiro barely caught a glimpse of any of that, however. He hardly saw it for almost as soon as he stepped into the room his gaze was trained upon the woman in the bed. He couldn't look away.

Allura was older than him. It was something Shiro had suspected from their conversations, but it had always been difficult to discern by just how much. Though relatively dark of skin, her hair was so pale as to be more white than ash-blonde. It was the thinness of her cheeks, however, the hollowness of her eyes and the slight strain in the hold of her eyes and the set of her lips behind an the oxygen mask, that was most pronounced. And yet even so, even with her thinness and the unhealthy colour of her cheeks, Shiro thought she was beautiful. He likely would have thought her beautiful if she was considered the most hideous person in the world because this was Allura. This was the Princess who had become his friend and grown so important to him over the past months.

At their entrance, Allura turned her head slowly towards them. A hint of a frown worried at her thin eyebrows, but it lasted barely a moment. Maybe her understanding was instinctive, as it had felt when Shiro had met the rest of his fellow paladins. Maybe Allura simply knew.

She struggled in her bed as they filed into the room, almost a spasm in her attempt to straighten from her recline. Her thin arms wrapped in IV tubes and studded with cannulas trembled slightly for her efforts. Her eyes widened and her breath audibly hitched behind her mask.

Before Shiro could say anything to calm her, to tell her to ease herself, before even Coran at his side could jump forwards, Hunk was at Allura's side. Unexpectedly, because Shiro had never known Hunk to be particularly close to Allura – or no more so than the rest of them – but there he was, dropping onto the edge of the bed and reaching a soothing hand towards her. Shiro recognised the gesture immediately, even though he hadn't seen it used in such a way before. It was with the same slowness, the same gentleness, that Hunk treated his mother.

"It's alright, Princess," Hunk said, and Shiro could hear the soft smile in his voice despite his back turned towards the rest of the room. "I'm sorry if we startled you. Please sit back and rest."

His voice was as soothing and gentle as his gestures, and Allura immediately switched her attention solely towards him. She stared for a long moment, breathing a little hoarsely and even more audibly into her mask before she managed to speak. The British in her was more distinct this time. "Y-you… you're Butterfingers, aren't you?" She didn't wait for a reply before she swung her gaze towards Coran and pinned him with a stare that held all the sharpness and accusation of a much healthier woman. "Coran, what did you do?"

"Please don't blame Coran," Shiro said before Coran could reply. He took himself slowly to the other side of Allura's bed to Hunk and smiled down at her as she turned towards him. "He was only offering what we all wanted."

"What you all…" Allura drew her gaze around the rest of them, blinking slowly. Her hands pressed tensely into her blankets, still trembling just slightly. "You wanted to meet me?"

"Didn't you know?" Lance said. A glance towards him showed that his subdued moment had passed to be replaced with a smile that was just a little smaller, just a little gentler, than his usual one. "We've all been hanging out for it, Princess. It's practically all we talk about when we meet up."

"That might be a bit of an exaggeration," Keith said, sparing Lance a glance of his own before turning back to Allura. "We're not so boring as to have only one topic of conversation. But it's true that we wanted to meet you."

"You," Allura began, her eyes jumping between each of them. They were very wide, Shiro saw. Very blue and just a little damp despite her rapid blinking to clear them. "I didn't want… I didn't…"

"What?" Hunk asked gently. "What's wrong?"

Allura shook her head, momentarily lowering her gaze. Clumps of her pale hair flopped long and limp around her face. "I didn't want you to have to see me like this."

"Like what?" Lance asked. "You mean -?"

"At my worst," Allura replied, not yet raising her gaze. "You shouldn't have to – to see me like this. Certainly not for our first meeting."

Before Shiro could speak in reassurance, Pidge stepped forward. He should perhaps expect his friends to jump into reply at any given opportunity, for despite each of their circumstances they were all assertive people, but it still surprised him a little. Pidge planted his hands on the end of Allura's bed, brow furrowing and lips thinning slightly as he leaned forwards. "Princess, I hate to break it to you, but that's what we are."

Allura seemed to glance upwards reflexively. "I'm sorry?"

"At our worst." Pidge gestured around himself. "All of us. We've all seen one another pretty badly at some point, I'm sure. Hell, Keith was there the first time I came out as gender fluid to my youth group. Not that I knew at the time, but he was there."

Allura blinked at Pidge then drew her gaze towards Keith. Her breath hitched slightly, a hollow sound from behind her mask. "You were? I didn't know that."

"I was," Keith nodded. "And if we're talking about worsts, I think I made a bit of a scene of myself when I met everyone a few weeks ago. That was certainly something of a first impression."

"You do know how to catch a guy's eye," Lance said, throwing Keith a smile that Keith merely blinked at. Lance sighed his exasperation. "It was a joke."

"Was it?" Pidge asked, staring at him shrewdly. "It wasn't very funny."

"Shut up, you," Lance replied.

"Hey, I'm just speaking for Keith because he thinks it's too obvious to say himself."

"What? Keith!"

"I didn't say anything," Keith said, raising a hand innocently.

"I thought it was kind of cute," Hunk said, twisting in his seat to send a smile Lance's way. "You're a cutie-pie, Lance."

Lance's grin spread widely once more as he glanced his way. "Thanks, babe."

Shiro watched their exchange with his own smile settling upon his lips. They'd grown so comfortable with one another. It was simply lovely so see, especially after the way they'd initially met. Keith had been a mess, Hunk all but desperate to offer a helping hand, Lance himself more panicked than Shiro had seen him since and Pidge frustrated from a distance that he couldn't be there when they needed the help. Now was different. _They_ were different, all of them individually and together.

Hunk and Lance had rapidly become tight friends. Pidge and Keith had something of a strange relationship based on the fact, as far as Shiro could tell, that they were both – perhaps unsurprisingly – very intelligent people. Pidge and Hunk shared their love for technology and engineering, while Keith and Lance… Shiro felt almost stupid for not realising just how far they'd come before he'd seen Lance kiss Keith's cheek in passing, but maybe it should have been obvious. They didn't act all that differently to how they always had, but how they _had_ was maybe a little unconventional to start with.

And then there was Shiro. He hadn't been sure of where he fit in, but apparently the rest of the paladins had. Hunk said that Shiro acted sort of like Keith's older brother. Keith said that Lance equal parts idolised and was intimidated by Shiro. Lance had told Shiro that Pidge most likely wanted to grow up to be Shiro himself one day, and Pidge had told him that Hunk mentioned the few nights he'd visited Shiro's apartment with his mother were some of the best he'd had. That it made him feel at home. Maybe Shiro wasn't so far removed from them as he'd thought.

Shiro only wished that Allura could be a part of that. He wished she'd been a part of it earlier. At first, simply speaking on Voltron had been enough, but 'enough' wasn't enough anymore. Allura should have had what they had too.

At that moment, Allura's gaze was jumping between each of her paladins as they spoke as though watching the ball at a tennis match. Shiro could understand that. At times he found it a little difficult to keep up with their exchanges. He took pity on her when she briefly glanced his way. "Don't worry," he said quietly. "You get used to it after a while."

"It's just like how it is on Voltron," she murmured.

"What is?" Pidge asked, attention drawn.

Allura glanced back towards him and her brow crinkled further. "All of it. All of you. You're all so…"

"Noisy," Lance said.

"Intrusive," Keith said.

"Overwhelming?" Pidge offered.

"All of the above?" Hunk suggested, turning back towards Allura.

Allura shook her head slowly and closed her eyes briefly. "This is all so… yes, all of the above."

"We're sorry about that," Shiro said softly. "We didn't mean to intrude upon you if you don't want us here. We just thought… we really would like to see you, and given you're unable to come to us yourself…"

"Move Muhammad to the mountain not the mountain to Muhammad," Coran said, breaking his watchful silence.

"What?" Each Pidge, Lance and Hunk asked as they, Shiro and Keith all glanced towards him.

Coran beamed at them. "It seems a suitable use of the analogy."

"Perhaps a little too suitable, yes," Allura said with a sigh. Then she shook her head. "But no, you're wrong. I would never not wish to see you all, but the circumstances are less than ideal. You truly shouldn't have to see me like this."

"It doesn't matter, though," Shiro said, easing slightly from his concern with her words. He hadn't wanted to impress their presence upon her, but if it was only for their sake then it shouldn't concern her. "It's not about how you look or how you appear. Isn't that what Voltron was originally all about?"

"I personally think that Voltron had a number of objectives, but that was likely one of them, yes," Allura said quietly. She spoke quietly with every word, in fact. Shiro wondered if it was because she was tired or simply how she always spoke.

"Do you mind if we stay with you for a while?" Hunk asked, shifting slightly in his seat on the bed. "Just for a little while, so we can talk to you?"

"We were all really excited to meet you, Princess," Lance said with a smile that was, for one of the few times Shiro had ever seen him direct towards a woman, entirely lacking in flirtatiousness. He even went to far as to prop his elbow on Keith's shoulder as Shiro had noticed he was want to do at times. "I personally would like to get to know you a little more."

"Even if it's just for a short time," Keith said in agreement, and before Shiro could flinch at the tactlessness of his words – for he didn't think it was really suitable to bring up Allura's impending surgery of the following day – he continued. "Visiting hours will end soon, won't they, Coran?"

"At eight o'clock," Coran said with a short nod.

"Could you put up with us for –" Shiro glanced down at his watch, "an hour or so?"

Allura shifted her gaze between them each once more as they spoke. She seemed caught on the verge of replying, her hands curling into the blankets at her sides. Her blinking became even more rapid but it did little to vanquish the tears that welled within them. She nodded quickly, sniffing slightly in a sound muffled into distortion by her oxygen mask. "If that's alright with you."

"It's more than alright," Shiro said.

She nodded once more. "Than I suppose. Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much."

At such simple words, the entire room lurched into a brief flurry of activity before settling once more. It should have perhaps been awkward – sitting in a hospital with something of a stranger in their midst, with the knowledge of her surgery hanging over them all – and yet it wasn't. As Shiro had found with each of their meetings, everything seemed to simply click into place.

Coran helped them to get additional chairs, which the nurses on call were unexpectedly enthusiastic to provide for them, and they took their seats in a semi-circle around Allura's bed. Then it simply flowed.

Shiro wasn't entirely sure who started the talking, but it was with utter openness that the conversation began. It could have been that their exchanges were so reminiscent of those shared on Voltron but with the added weight of _reality_ an extension of the openness they'd already shared was urged upon them all. It could have been that with the understanding of mortality suspended in their midst, the need for airing truths became more pronounced. Or it could have been because the simple act of them all meeting together felt somehow important, warranting the moment of openness and honesty.

For whatever the reason, Shiro listened as each of his friends spoke as they rarely had before. They spoke with reference to Allura, introducing themselves more completely, but it was for everyone's ears. Quite without direct intention, Shiro knew, the conversation grew sombre, serious and entirely heartfelt as it often didn't. For each of them, Allura stared as though the world revolved solely around the speaker. There was nothing but utter devotion in her attentiveness.

Hunk was the one who began with the weighty talk of his mother. Of how she'd suffered her strokes and what a blow it had been both to himself and his gran. He spoke of how he'd had to drop out of school. something that Shiro knew but hadn't been entirely aware of how much it had affected him, and of how Hunk actually _did_ want to go back.

"I would," he said, hands rubbing together in his lap as though rolling a ball of dough. "I really, really would. But even though my gran brings it up every now and again, I couldn't do it. I couldn't put an even heavier burden on Gran. Who would look after my mom?"

Lance commiserated in that he could understand not wishing to burden his family. He spoke of how they'd never been well-off, and their struggle had only grown more profound the more children were added to their midst. Shiro bit back on the instinctive urge to offer his help; he'd always been gifted with money, both from his family and his work. He could help. But Lance wouldn't like that. Shiro knew him well enough to understand that he would accept small tokens but nothing significant. Not in this instance.

"I'd kind of love to get my own job, you know," Lance said, smiling ruefully as though he thought the notion was a foolish one. "It might sound stupid –"

"It doesn't," Keith said quietly.

Lance glanced towards him and his smile changed just slightly. "Thanks. But I mean, I'd love to be able to branch out a little more. I love my family, but it feels like I'm stuck in the mud a little bit sometimes. It's not like I can ask for more when my mamá and papá have nothing else to give, but I have to admit I feel a little bit desperate sometimes. It would be nice to have that kind of freedom."

Keith said he understood that. That he understood what it was like to have decisions made for him, taken from him, and to have no autonomy over where he was sent or who he stayed with. After his first real explanation in Shiro's apartment pertaining to his foster families, Keith had been very quiet on the matter. He'd not said a word more about Shiro's suggestion that he move in either, and Shiro hadn't asked.

But he spoke then, if in a low, almost detached voice. Of how he'd hated not having a real say in the matter, despite the social worker assigned to him telling him it was 'as much his decision who he stayed with as anyone's'. Keith spoke of how he'd always been alone but never really _alone,_ and how sometimes he just wanted relief from the confines placed upon him.

"But you're not leaving," Lance said, an edge to his voice. He reached for Keith and grasped his hand before Keith could even glance towards him. "You're needed here."

Keith stared at him before shaking his head. "I don't think anyone _needs_ me, Lance. That's not how it works. I'm not asking anyone to pity me for it, but that's true."

"But," Lance began, but surprisingly Allura interrupted him.

"Lance," she said in her distorted voice. "Leave it be."

Lance visibly struggled, but he dropped the situation, even if he didn't let go of Keith's hand.

Pidge followed with his admission of how he'd never really had friends at his school. He told them that he'd always been smart, though he didn't sound happy for the fact, and yet he'd never felt like he was enough in his mom's eyes. That his dad hadn't minded that he wasn't as close to perfect as possible, but he'd left years ago.

"And then with all of this," Pidge said, gesturing to himself. "I know Mom wouldn't understand; she wants me to be normal but somehow exceptional, and she wouldn't understand this sort of thing. Matt knows and he's never hated me for being _me_ but…" He shook his head, shoulders sagging slightly. "I'm always scared about telling people and about what they'll think of me. It's stupid, but… not feeling good enough is really…"

"It's not stupid," Shiro said, and he reached out to drop his hand onto Pidge's shoulder. "It's not, Pidge. I get that."

"You do?"

"I do," Shiro said. And he told them. About how he'd always wanted to be the very best he could be, but even that hadn't been enough. Not to him. He told them, voicing for the very first time, how he felt so ashamed for failing and falling into the disaster that had lost him his arm.

"I guess I wasn't good enough too," Shiro said, turning a smile towards Pidge where he stared back at him with eyes wide behind his glasses.

Silence fell momentarily after that. Shiro hadn't even noticed but, as it settled, he realised that the window behind him had blackened with night. A reflection of the room and all of them within it had appeared in place of the sprawling city beyond the glass. A touch of fog smattered the image, the cold of the encroaching winter beyond not quite pervading the room.

They made a picture, the seven of them; the addition of Allura and Coran was unfamiliar but far from unwanted. Shiro wasn't the only one who looked to the glass image either. As he turned, Shiro saw the reflections of each of his friends glance in the same direction.

"It's night," Hunk murmured. "I didn't even realise."

"We'll have to go soon," Shiro said.

"In about ten minutes," Coran said with a regretful sigh. "I'm sorry, but they're rather strict about visiting hours. It disturbs the patients, you understand."

They each nodded but no one seemed inclined to speak further. Though they didn't have much longer, for himself Shiro felt talked out. He regretted a little that Allura hadn't been given a chance to speak of herself, but she'd brushed aside his initial suggestion to do so. She was tired, she said, and she wanted listen. "That's what Voltron's all about, isn't it?" She'd said, and it seemed something of a motto for her from the practiced tone.

Allura was the one to break their silence, however. At her sigh, at the slight hum that followed, Shiro turned from the window towards her. She was shaking her head slowly, eyes closing as though her attention was turned introspectively. "All of you," she murmured. "All of you…"

"What?" Lance asked curiously.

Allura opened her eyes, her pale eyes startlingly even more so with the backdrop of night juxtaposing the fluorescence lights overhead. She drew her gaze around their semi-circle in a sweeping glance, the smile pulling her lips visible even through her mask. "All of you are such perfect people. Why can't you see that?"

Shiro stared at her. For a moment, her words didn't make an ounce of sense in his mind. "Perfect?" He found himself echoing. Then he shook his head. He could understand such a sentiment to the rest of his friends, but for himself? Shiro _knew_ he fell far short. "I think you might be –"

"Let me speak please, Shiro," Allura interrupted him, and despite her words, her tone wasn't harsh. It was almost pleading in its feeble softness. "We only have ten more minutes, so let me speak. Just… please, let me say what I will."

Allura paused as though expecting an interruption, but when none was forthcoming she continued. Her smile softened as she spoke. "I'm sure Coran has told you, even if I didn't want you to know. That I am sick. Very sick, even, and that I will be going into surgery tomorrow.

"I've had a weak heart since I was a child, or more correctly my coronary arteries have never truly been up to the task of ensuring my wellbeing. It has only become weaker as I've grown into adulthood." Allura sighed with less regret and more resignation, her thin hands folding in her lap. "Tomorrow, I've been gifted the opportunity for a second chance. I'll undergo heart surgery with one of the top heart surgeons in the United States. It was only at short notice, but such things can't be disregarded for psychological preparedness."

Shiro felt a sudden tightness squeeze his chest as his breath caught. He couldn't look away from Allura as she spoke, seeming to meet everyone's gaze at once. Heart surgery? That was a good thing, wasn't it? Risky, but if her heart was failing there could be little else more wondrous. It was just as Coran had said; it could be equal parts miraculous or disastrous.

"I have been lucky," Allura continued. "So lucky in this chance. And even more, I've been lucky that I've had friends to support me the entire way through. All of you." She gestured towards the room with a hand, her IV swinging with the gesture. "You don't realise how lucky I've been to have you."

"We're nothing special," Pidge said.

"But you are," Allura said, and despite the weary hush of her voice her words were forceful. "You _are_. You just don't seem to realise it. And the only thing standing in each of your way is yourself. Forgive me, and you can hate me for my words, but I must speak in case I never get the chance to."

"Pidge," she said before Shiro could even object to her horrifyingly morbid suggestion. "You are so strong. That you have persisted to learn to embrace yourself despite your fears, that you've struggled to stand up for yourself despite believing that you wouldn't receive approval, is simply a testament to that strength. But _you_ are the one who needs to accept yourself first, Pidge. Because you _are_ perfect, and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of you. Although, if you were to ask anyone else in the room I'm sure they will readily tell you."

Allura turned from a wide-eyed and rapidly blinking Pidge towards Hunk. "Hunk, you are so compassionate. I've seen it and heard it from the very first day we spoke. You deserve so much more than the hand you've been dealt."

"There's nothing wrong with my hand," Hunk said, his voice catching slightly as he straightened in his seat with a slight frown. "I chose it."

Shaking her head, Allura's expression softened further. "You didn't. You didn't at all. You were forced to drop out of school because you lack even the barest hint of selfishness that would have you putting yourself first even a little. I don't think you ever have, Hunk, but you deserve to. Your grandmother? I believe she would want you to stand for yourself, too."

"It's not so easy as that," Hunk protested. "I can't ask her to do that."

"And why not?" Allura asked. "Why should you have to put yourself second? I do not know her, but can you truly tell me that your grandmother would want you to be anything but happy?"

Hunk didn't seem able to reply, but Lance spoke for him.

"You make it sound easy saying it like that," he said. He shook his head. "It's not, though. It's really not. How could you even think about doing what you want when your whole family might suffer for it?"

"Will they?" Allura asked, and Lance ground to a halt. "Do you know they'll suffer for it?"

Lance seemed to struggle for words for a moment before continuing. "They wouldn't ask for help if they didn't need it," he managed, his voice quieter than Shiro had ever heard it before.

"Wouldn't they?" Allura asked. "Maybe they only ask because they believe you'll give as much as you feasibly can. That doesn't mean that they want you to give your everything, Lance."

"You don't know that," Lance said, his voice somehow even more subdued. "You don't know how they are. They _do_ need the help."

Allura shook her head. "I might not know your family anymore than I know Hunk's grandmother, Lance, but I know my own. My father – he always used to tell me that the greatest gift for him was to see me happy. I don't know your parents, or your sisters or brothers, but I believe they love you."

"I know they do," Lance choked out. He dropped his eyes to his knees and swallowed visibly. "They do. But they shouldn't –"

"And if they do, they would want you to be happy," Allura somehow managed to override him. "Not to give more than you can. You're allowed a life too, Lance."

It was Lance's turn to fall silent. Allura seemed to have that effect, Shiro saw. With barely a word, quiet yet somehow fierce, an emotional yet still logical voice, she silenced them each in turn.

Keith apparently had the same thought as Shiro. "You're approaching this very analytically, Princess," he said, referring to her by her pseudonym as they'd each called her that evening. There was no anger or even disgruntlement in his voice but instead a very practical curiosity. He tightened his arms slightly in their fold across his chest. "I don't mean to sound rude, but you kind of do yourself."

Allura actually chuckled at that. It was a breathy sound that immediately had Coran starting to her side, only for her to wave him away with a raised hand and a glance. She turned back to Keith. "Perhaps I do. Call it the scientist in me, but I've always been a lover of psychology. Whether it is that of mice or humans, I find it fascinating."

"Should we be offended that you consider us research subjects?" Keith asked.

Allura shook her head. "Not in the slightest. It merely means that I view each of you without the filter of self-reprimand, frustration and a thick veil of emotion."

"Clearly and logically," Shiro said before he could stop himself. "Very much like the researcher you are."

"Exactly," Allura agreed. "Such as for yourself, Keith. I don't think you realise quite how much, but there are people who care for you. Just like I do too; though I know so little about you, I _want_ to know you. I want to get to know you, because you're my friend. Don't believe that no one in the world needs or wants you. You're not a burden, Keith. You're wanted. Every person in this room wants you right where you are."

"Excuse me?" Keith said, voice rising slightly as his frown fell.

"You're not familiar with that, are you?" Allura shook her head. "Please, feel free to hate me for the assumption if you will, but you're not. And it's horrible to see, because you're worth it. You're allowed to have people genuinely care for you without needing a system in place to force them to."

Keith stared at Allura unblinkingly, but it was different to the way he usually did. That difference lay in the widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, as though Allura's words resounded on a soul-deep level.

Shiro could understand that. He could understand that her words held so much force to them. Even more so when Allura turned towards Shiro and reached a hand across the distance between them. She had to stretch slightly, and Shiro unconsciously leant forwards into her hand. He hadn't even realised she'd been reaching for the stump of his absented arm until her fingers touched him. "And Shiro?"

She paused, and Shiro couldn't help but stare at her. At her fingers and then into her eyes where she gazed at him with such softness and sincerity it was almost heartbreaking. "Yes?" He heard himself say.

Her fingers squeezed slightly, the feeling apparent even through the thickness of Shiro's jacket. "See your doctor, Shiro. You deserve to get that arm back, even if you don't believe it yourself. You do. You deserve it and you _are_ good enough for that. Believe me."

There was weight behind Allura's words. They were few, but the force she spoke with immediately told Shiro why each of his friends had found themselves rendered mute before her. It was impossible to disbelieve her words when Allura turned them upon him alongside her pale stare. When she squeezed his shoulder once more, Shiro could _feel_ it. He could almost think it true.

Deserving.

Good enough.

It didn't seem possible, but when Allura said it was so, Shiro thought perhaps, just maybe, it might be so.

They didn't really speak after that. Barely a word was exchanged before the nurse on the floor appeared and requested they take their leave as visiting hours were over. Shiro didn't want to go. He'd hardly spoken to Allura at all, and after her words he felt the unshakeable urge to cling to them, to her, to stay by her side. If the similar slowness of his friends' step was any indication, he wasn't the only one suffering from reluctance.

"Goodbye," was the communal word shared by each of them, but Shiro found he again wasn't the only one to compulsively speak more.

"It was so good to meet you, Princess," Lance said, pausing at her bedside and reaching a finger to poke briefly at her hand. "Really good. It shouldn't have taken so long."

"You're not quite how I expected," Keith said, "but I like you. I think I'd like to get to know you too."

"Good luck tomorrow," Hunk said with an audible sniff. "We'll be waiting on Voltron for the second you get out, okay?"

"We will," Pidge agreed. "I know I live with my phone, but I'm hardly going to sleep tonight. You take care of yourself, Princess. Don't just stop talking to us."

"I will," Allura said, smiling warmly if wearily up at Pidge as he took a step backwards and started towards the door after the rest of their friends. "Thank you, Pidge. I look forward to it."

Shiro paused for a moment longer at Allura's bedside and couldn't find his voice until she turned towards him. He swallowed thickly. "Thank you, Allura. For what you said."

Allura reached a hand towards him once more, touching his shoulder gently. "I mean it, Shiro. You do."

"And so do you," he said, reaching his own hand towards hers to clasp her fingers. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Hopefully," Allura said, and for the first time Shiro saw the fear that Coran had mentioned in his message to Voltron well in her eyes, the fear she didn't let herself show. Her eyes tightened, bottom lips quivering slightly, before she asserted control over her features.

Shiro shook his head. "Not hopefully. We'll be waiting for you, alright? You'll definitely be seeing us again."

It was Allura's turn to be rendered speechless this time. She blinked in quick flutters in the way she'd done several times that night already before nodding fervently. Though no sound passed her lips, Shiro could very definitely make out the words, " _I will_."

Shiro left. It was hard, but he left. And as he joined the rest of his friends in their slow passing from the hospital, it was with many a backwards glance towards the room that held their princess.


	12. Work In Reparation

_15/11 – 09.00am_

It was the morning when they came for her, and Coran would be lying if he said he wasn't terrified. Allura had become his life since the moment her father had died and Coran had taken her under his wing. Before that, even, because as the young appointed butler of the household and taking over from his own father, as the unrequested but acknowledged bodyguard that he became, it was as much his work as his lifestyle to care for her.

And he loved her. Coran would always love Allura. She was the child he'd never realised he wanted or needed.

When the nurses came, they gave he and Allura a moment to say goodbye. Coran grasped her hand and found it something of an impossibility to let go.

"It's alright, Coran," Allura whispered, staring up at him with wide, kind eyes. She'd gotten those from her father, Coran thought. Those eyes and that unerring kindness were simply a part of her. In spite of the fear visible alongside it, Allura was reassuring _him_. It should have been the other way around, but Coran grasped that reassurance like a lifeline.

"I'll be alright," she reiterated. "I will be. I promise."

 _How could you know that for sure?_ Coran couldn't ask, so he nodded instead and squeezed Allura's hand between both of his own. "I know. I trust you."

His princess, the little girl who wasn't so little anymore, smiled behind her oxygen mask. It was a wavering, fearful smile yet still reassuring. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Of course you will."

"And you'll look after them?"

So typical of Allura. Even in the midst of her own fear and the trials she was facing, she thought of her friends. Coran nodded, released one of his hands from his clasp and pressed the pocketed phone she'd bequeathed upon him that morning. He'd stowed it away and had no intention of letting it out of his hold until he could hand it back to her.

Coran nodded, squeezing her fingers gently. "I will. I'll keep them updated."

"Until I have the lucidity to properly reply," Allura said, repeating the words she'd voiced earlier as she'd first handed it to him.

Coran nodded once more, then found himself shaking his head with a rueful smile. "I think it's _you_ that you should be concerned for, Allura. Not Voltron. Your paladins can take care of themselves."

Allura smiled back a little sadly. "I know they can. They have each other. But Voltron itself is teetering on the brink of destruction."

"You shouldn't be worrying about that either," Coran chided gently. He squeezed her hand once more.

Allura managed a tired chuckle. She'd been awake for barely two hours that morning and she was already weary. Coran was terrified for the procedure that was to come, felt his heart seize as the very thought of it, but he was grateful all the same. Allura had declined rapidly and extensively in the past months. There was no other option.

"I'm not worried," Allura said with a sigh before pausing to peer around Coran slightly. He followed her gaze; the nurses were making their slow way back towards them, talking in low voices. Allura ignored them to continue. "It is simply sentimentality, I suppose. It was how we all met, so…"

"I'll keep them updated," Coran repeated. "Don't you worry about that. Your friends will be waiting for you on the other side, Princess."

Allura smiled once more, but it wavered just slightly this time. She blinked rapidly before nodding with a sharp tip of her head. "Thank you. I – thank you, Coran. For everything."

"Always," Coran said, bowing his head slightly. It was always harder to maintain his own composure when Allura grew choked up. Most of the time it was _she_ mopping _him_ up; this time, he knew he was the one who had to stay strong. For her sake if nothing else. "I'll be waiting for you right here as well, Allura."

The nurses took her away after that. Allura's bed was trundled down the hall, the wheels squeaking just slightly, and Coran watched her for as long as he was able. When she disappeared around the corner, he felt as though he'd had a limb abruptly and painfully removed.

With slightly shaking hands, he drew his own phone from his pocket and clicked it to life. The Voltron lion ballooned in size as soon as he clicked into the App and he typed out a quick message in the bright orange that was his designated colour.

_WimbletonSmythe: She's gone in. Pray with me, everyone._

* * *

"Hunk, you know how much I dislike you using your phone at the dining table."

Hunk glanced up from the black screen of Voltron towards his gran, and whether it was already understood on her part or something in his expression that gave him away, she didn't seem quite as strongly reprimanding as she usually was. Maybe she understood. Hunk knew he hadn't been quite as animated that morning as he usually was when she arrived, despite the full night's sleep he'd been afforded without having to work either that day or the one before.

He hadn't slept that previous night. He'd been thinking. About a lot of things, really, but some more pronouncedly than others. About their Princess going into surgery that morning. About meeting her the previous day. About…

About what she'd said to him.

It might have been selfish of him to consider his own troubles when Allura was going into _surgery,_ but her words resounded with him in a constant echo. Hunk heard each one as though they were being replayed in his ear on repeat over and over again.

_Why should you have to put yourself second?_

_I don't put myself second_ , Hunk thought, forcibly turning from his phone and back to his lunch. _Everything I've done has been my choice._

And yet despite his certainty, when Allura had said it, had said how he should be allowed to go back to school if he'd wanted to, Hunk couldn't help but long for it. Maybe his view of school was a little idealistic, and Lance's complaints about school and homework, Pidge's about forced social interaction, should have been deterring, but not to Hunk. He supposed he hadn't really known how good it had been to attend until he'd stopped.

But _selfish_. It would be selfish of him to go back when his mom was in such a state. He glanced towards where she sat, her own meal already fed to her as it always was when he and his gran dined together. She was as still and silent as always, and Hunk might have thought she wasn't breathing at all if not for the ever so slight rise and fall of her chest.

He couldn't go back to school. Not with his mom to care for. Not when it would put so much extra weight upon his gran's shoulders. And yet Allura had said…

_Can you truly tell me that your grandmother would want you to be anything but happy?_

Hunk knew his gran loved him. He knew that he was her life as much as she and his mom were his own. She _did_ love him, wanted what was best for him, and yet that was exactly why he couldn't ask it of her. He couldn't, could he? He couldn't ask her again as he had years ago to move into his house, because her answer would surely be the same.

_"I love my house, Hunk my boy. It has too many memories in it of your pa that I don't think I could ever leave it. I'll come over at every moment I can to help out because that's what grandma's do, but to leave it would be…"_

Hunk had backed out of his request hastily after that. He knew how heavy the loss of his pa had been upon his gran. And she did love her house. He couldn't even suggest that she leave it again.

But Allura had said…

Shaking his head, Hunk picked at his food. It wasn't so much that he wasn't hungry, but he feared that if he opened his mouth he might say something that he'd regret. He might ask his gran… he might ask her…

Why did Allura's words resound with him so strongly? With all of them, Hunk knew, because he'd spent most of the night awake and exchanging messages with his fellow paladins. Even Shiro had been struck by the exchange. How did she do that? How -?

"What are you thinking about so deeply, my boy?"

Hunk glanced up at his gran once more and met her wizened gaze where she sat across from him. She was still sharp, still entirely together even at her age. Though a stroke had taken her husband just as it was taking her daughter, she was as hale and hearty as she'd ever been.

The way she looked at Hunk demanded an answer. Because she cared, he knew. She always asked, would always come to Hunk's house and always help him with his mom, because she cared. Because she wanted what was best for him.

Because she wanted him to be happy.

Years it had been since Hunk had last asked his gran to move in. That was the one and only time he'd forced himself to act so selfishly. He hadn't thought he would ever want, need or be able to do so again. And yet after the previous night, after considering for that entire night the almost compulsive effect Allura's words had on him, Hunk found himself speaking.

"Gran, do you think I'm smart?"

He didn't know where the words sprung come from and apparently neither did his gran for she frowned in confusion, lowering her own fork. "What?"

Hunk shook his head hastily, kicking himself. "Sorry, I was only asking because –"

"Has someone said you're not?" His gran's frown morphed into a heavy scowl. "Because I swear, my boy, you would be the smartest young man in this city if you put your mind to it. In the country if you wanted to."

A feeble smile touched Hunk's lips. His gran was always fierce in her defence and protectiveness. He very much doubted the truth of her words but they were reassuring nonetheless. "I doubt that. My friend Pidge is younger than be by a couple of years but way smarter."

"Hmph." His gran fully lowered her fork to her plate and folded her arms stubbornly before her. "Perhaps. But as I told you, you haven't been given the chance. You're a bright boy; I know you are. Very smart. Always have been. You got that from your mom, I'd wager, because your dad was always a no-good fool."

Hunk couldn't help but chuckle quietly at that. His gran had never liked his dad for how he'd been all but absent for most of Hunk's life. Hunk didn't mind. He'd had his mom and grandparents, and they were enough. "Yeah. Thanks, Gran."

"Where did this come from, though? It's not like you to second guess yourself like that."

Shaking his head, Hunk gave himself a moment by stuffing a rissole into his mouth. He chewed slowly before replying. "Nothing. It's just something stupid."

"Hunk," his gran said sharply, and Hunk couldn't help but wince slightly. "I'll be the one to tell you when you're being stupid and it is not now, my boy. Tell me, what's troubling you."

Shaking his head once more, Hunk dropped his gaze. He prodded at the last of his rissoles as he searched for the right words. "I just… I guess I was just…"

"You know I don't like dawdling, Hunk," his gran warned.

In spite of the situation and his own hesitancy, Hunk couldn't help but smile at that. He glanced back up at his gran and the demanding openness spread across her face had him speaking once more. "I guess I was just missing school is all."

His gran's scowl faded back into a frown that wasn't quite as confused as it had been before. She leant forwards on her folded arms. "This has been a long time in coming. It's been nearly two years."

"I know," Hunk said with a bobbing nod. "I know that. I was just thinking."

"And?"

His gran was perceptive. She always had been. Never could Hunk ever get away without saying everything that was on his mind when she caught him thinking too hard. "And," he said slowly, "I guess I'd really, really like to go back."

Silence met his words. Hunk's gran didn't speak but simply stared at him with immoveable eyes that demanded a proper explanation. So Hunk gave it in a rush of guilt and cringing regret, spilling forth his thoughts and hopes and remorse all at once. "I'm sorry. I know it's selfish of me. It really, really is and I know that. But I miss it. I miss learning and I miss that I'll never get the chance to go to a proper school again. I love my work, Gran, I really do, and I love spending time at home with you and Mom, but – but I –"

"Hunk."

" – I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask, but I really do want to go back. I know college is a far-off dream but making it just a little less far off would just be just the best thing in the world. I'll be at home as much as I can when I'm not at work, but –"

"Hunk," his gran said once more, and this time it was with enough force to cut him off. "Calm down, lad."

Hunk pressed his lips together and hunched his shoulders. His gran didn't sound angry, exactly, but he couldn't think she'd be happy. Not with what he was asking. He bowed his head once more.

Only to raise it as his gran continued. "I thought you'd never ask. It's about time. I've been waiting for you to decide to take that step back for years."

Incredulity dawned within Hunk as his gran grinned broadly and reached across the table to pat his arm. He stared at her for a long moment as she smiled back at him. As she continued to pat his arm. As she nodded and murmured that, "Of course you can, you silly boy. Why wouldn't I want you to?"

Then he burst into tears.

* * *

_To the moderator who decided (and everyone else in charge),_

_So I know you probably won't read this. You've probably got a whole bunch of these kind of messages already. But I feel like I had to at least try._

_Please don't close down Voltron. I don't know who told you that it was an invasion of privacy or whatever, but surely everyone gets complaints sometimes, don't they? I mean, if we didn't keep it up every time some people had a disagreement, nothing would ever get done, would it?_

_I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't think the bad outweighs the good in this case. I don't know about every other member, but Voltron's been so special to me. I would be really devastated if it closed down. Please reconsider._

_Sincerely,_

_Butterfingers._

* * *

Across the living room from him, risen from her seat, Sara was paused in the act of crossing to Keith's side. He was glad she didn't. It wasn't that he disliked the Tulson's or Sara in particular, even if Clyde and Olly had been something of a nuisance since he'd arrived, but he didn't need her half-hearted attempts at compassion. Once, Keith might have wanted it. Once, he might have even latched onto any kind word she offered him as though it were solid gold and he a desperate miser.

Not anymore, however, and it wasn't because Keith hated everyone. It wasn't because he couldn't bring himself to trust anyone and Sara, Peter and their two children were a part of that 'anyone'. Keith was still reluctant to trust, but that wasn't it.

He didn't because he didn't need to.

From their own seats on the coach, Clyde and Peter watched him with wide, slightly incredulous eyes. At Clyde's side, Olly, glanced between his parents and older brother, confused. "What? What does that mean?"

Keith ignored the question, staring first at Sara then at Peter. They were the only two who really needed to understand and from the expressions on both of their faces they did. "I just wanted to let you know."

"But…" Sara's voice faltered slightly before she reattempted to speak. "But why? I mean, I know we've never been close and you haven't been happy here, Keith, but we could – we could try to –"

"It's not that," Keith said, cutting her off before she could grow hysterical in her insistence. He didn't know why she cared so much. Maybe she simply worried if she'd somehow failed. Keith knew that worry. He was never more frustrated with himself that when he failed at anything he attempted. "It's no reflection on either of you." He spared an encompassing glance towards Peter. "It's just what I want."

"What you want?" Peter echoed distantly, as though the thought of Keith actually admitting such was a foreign concept to him. "That's…"

"You want to, Keith?" Sara said, and despite her apparent anguish over his decision, she seemed almost satisfied for the words that had followed. "You really do?"

Keith nodded. "Yeah. I've found… He's a friend. I think it will work out."

"Oh," Sara said quietly. Then she nodded slowly. "I guess, then… if that's what you really want."

"It is."

"Then shall we call the social worker? Let them know."

Keith shrugged, taking a step backwards from the living room. "It won't be for a while yet. Sorry, but you'll still be stuck with me until I'm eighteen."

"We're not stuck with you, Keith," Peter said quietly. "You're not a burden to us."

Though words rung in Keith's mind, an echo of those he'd heard only the previous day. _You're not a burden, Keith._ Allura had said. _You're wanted._

No one had ever said that to him before. Not like Allura had said it. His friends had asked him, _told_ him, not to leave, but with Allura it had been different. It was almost embarrassing to hear because people didn't just admit things like that, but it felt strangely good, too. Keith had always been better at understanding what was bluntly stated rather than woven with intricacies.

Allura's words stuck with him. For the entire trip back from NYSSH and then afterwards, Keith had thought about it. As they spoke of Allura, worried for her, Keith marvelled that she was so strong as to persuade _him_ of something when sh was in such a horrifying situation herself. He wondered at that. And right on the tail of that wonder had welled the reminder of Shiro's words. Of what he'd offered and the suggestion that Lance all but begged him towards every day.

_You have people who genuinely care for you._

Keith hadn't ever had that before. There had been those who had taken care of him, families he'd been assigned. But each one he'd left because they hadn't quite fit, or they couldn't handle another foster child for too long or, in later years, because he was too resistant to a family's company at all.

Voltron, he'd slowly come to realise over the past twelve hours, was probably the closest thing to a family he'd had since he'd lost his parents. And when Allura said what she did and Keith saw the agreement on the faces of each of his friends…

He couldn't leave it at that. He couldn't.

"Would it be alright if I left now?" Keith asked, half-turning from the living room and gesturing over his shoulder. "I just have some friends I need to see."

"Why would you ask?" Clyde said, though without the bite of hatred that was usually embedded in his words. "You never have before."

"Clyde," Sara said sharply, shooting him a frown. Clyde ducked his head.

"Of course you can, Keith," Peter replied, a smile breaking through the incessant surprise on his face. "Whatever you'd like."

"Thank you," Keith said with a nod, turning. "I'll see you later."

"You will," Sara called after him, and that was that.

Keith was already pulling his phone from his pocket before he'd stepped through the front door. Starting down the path leading from the Tulson's house, past the immaculate front lawn and through the little fence lined with shrubs sagging beneath the weight of encroaching winter, Keith started towards the bus stop. His fingers were nearly frozen immediately by the cold night air but it hardly mattered. Keith typed anyway.

His immediate intention had been to message Lance. He and Lance were constantly messaging one another to a degree that Keith knew six months before would have left him stunned. Keith didn't have friends and he didn't really talk to people either.

Lance was different, though. All of the paladins were.

He changed his mind at the last minute, however; what he had to say was to all of them, really. He clicked into Voltron, the lion silhouette flaring to life.

_Red: So I've been thinking, and I talked to the Tulsons._

_Red: If it's still alright with you, BlackLion, could I move into your apartment with you when I turn eighteen?_

Keith wasn't sure if his words were too forward, even after Shiro had asked him first. Lance had told him he could be very blunt sometimes and Keith had never really realised it but he supposed it was probably true. Keith liked directness. It was always so much better than beating around the bush, skirting the subject.

Despite the message being to everyone, Lance was still the first to reply. Keith could have expected that. He had barely lowered his phone before it was buzzing for attention.

_Sharpshooter18: !_

_Sharpshooter18: SERIOUSLY?!_

_Sharpshooter18: Man, that's fantastic!_

_Sharpshooter18: F*ck, I really need to kiss you right now. Seriously, I'm so happy. So happy._

_Sharpshooter18: Of course it'll be alright with Shiro. He was the one who asked you first, isn't he?_

_Sharpshooter18: But seriously, Red, I'm so happy right now. This is the best day of my life._

Keith found himself smiling. Lance seemed to have had a lot of 'best days' in the past few weeks. Shaking his head, Keith picked up his step. If he was on time, he could make it to their usual meeting place in an hour.

* * *

_To the moderator,_

_I'm writing in regard to the recent message you've communally sent pertaining to the closing down of Voltron. Though I understand it is hardly my place to say so, I feel I must add my dispute as I doubt I'd be the first to do so and wished to add my contribution to the proceedings._

_Don't close down Voltron. Though to many – primarily those that have an issue with the privacy measures despite its extensiveness being outlined in the opening guidelines and policies – it might seem like something negligible at best, for myself personally I have found this Application to be extremely advantageous. Not only myself but several others in my chatroom have expressed their distress for the possibility of Voltron closing down._

_Instead, perhaps it would be more appropriate to evict those who have a problem with Voltron? For those still using and enjoying their use, I don't believe that such 'privacy issues' are a problem._

_I hope you'll reconsider our decision,_

_Red._

* * *

Lance was excited. For the first time, Keith was coming with him to his papá's shop. He wouldn't be cutting his hair, of course – though Lance intended to at some point, he could understand the need for baby steps when the situation arose – but that hardly mattered. Keith was stepping more completely into his world and Lance couldn't be happier for that fact.

His high was attributed at least in part to the message Keith had posted on Voltron barely two hours before. Prior to that, Lance would admit he'd been somewhat low. Meeting Allura, the thoughts and contemplations she'd provoked, and more than that, her retreat into hospital as was necessitated, had him unable to sit still and barely manage a wink of sleep the previous night.

But Lance wasn't a melancholic person by nature. Not usually, anyway. And the news that Keith was sticking around, that he'd be staying with Shiro and he wasn't leaving, was one of the few things that could have scratched Lance's sombre mood. He'd even tried to attend the street-soccer match earlier that morning but it was hard to concentrate when he was checking his phone for incoming messages every other moment. It was strange, because Lance had rarely considered himself more inclined to attend to anything but family issues over a soccer match. Some things really did change.

It was cold that day. Bitterly cold, though the sun sat barely halfway down the horizon. Snow looked to be a likelihood trailing after the descending winter, which wasn't ideal, but Lance wasn't complaining. Not when he was quite comfortably absorbing any heat Keith radiated from the shoulders Lance had slung his arm around.

Keith didn't mind that. Unexpectedly, because Lance wouldn't have thought him the type to allow it in the past, but he hadn't seemed mind it for a long time. Lance took every opportunity to abuse that privilege he could.

They paused outside of his papá's shop. It wasn't a large establishment and it was far from being in an upstanding neighbourhood, but it was alive with bright lights and customers, noise buzzing from the barbers within as they chatted with their clients and one another alike. Lance could see Angel and Gavin through the class windows; it should have probably been him in one of their places, but apparently he'd appeared distressed enough the previous night when he returned home that his papá had called in a favour.

"This is your shop?" Keith asked, staring though the glass window alongside him.

Lance glanced towards him, caught for a moment in staring at Keith's profile and the beginnings of a frown upon his forehead. Lance wouldn't ever get tired of staring, of understanding that Keith was _his_ boyfriend. He'd hoped but never really _hoped_ for weeks after they'd first met in person. It seemed a little surreal at times that it had happened at all – even more surreal as meeting an online friend a whole city away in person.

"Does that worry you?" Lance asked.

Keith caught his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment in a way that Lance had come to recognise as meaning he felt uncomfortable. Keith allowed himself to show little enough expression as it was; Lance had to take any hints he could get. "I'm not worried," Keith muttered.

"But?"

"But I guess it just feels a little weird meeting your parents for the first time."

Weird, Lance could understand. He'd one girlfriend's parents before and it had definitely been an unnerving experience. What he couldn't determine, however, was whether or not Keith was nervous about meeting his parents because they were _Lance's_ parents, or because they were parents at all. Keith seemed to have some slightly skewed opinions about what family was supposed to entail. Lance hoped to fix that if he could.

Leaning towards him, Lance, pressed a kiss on Keith's cheek. His skin was cold but Lance didn't mind. He'd take any opportunity to kiss Keith that he could. It only served to remind him that he was _definitely_ Lance's boyfriend had he possibly needed the reminder at all. He smiled widely as Keith glanced sidelong towards him. "Don't worry about it. My papá will love you."

"People don't love me, Lance," Keith said with a slightly exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. "I thought we'd been through this."

"Really? That's weird, 'cause I happen to so –"

Lance stuttered to a stop. That… hadn't been what he'd intended to say. Love? After dating for, what, a few weeks? It was probably a little too soon. Lance felt heat rise in his cheeks as Keith blinked at him silently ad obliviously before forcing his embarrassment aside. _He probably thinks it's normal to say things like that to your boyfriend_ , Lance thought. Such an excuse had saved Lance's neck more than once since they'd begun dating. Keith seemed to have a slightly skewed understanding of what was entailed in a relationship between boyfriends, too.

"Anyway, the day's a-wasting," Lance said before, dropping his arm from Keith's shoulders to latch onto his fingerless-ly gloved hand instead, he started into the shop.

A billow of amplified noise, warmth and chemical scent washed over Lance in a familiar wave as soon as he stepped through the door. A moment later, the sound of conversation was redoubled as first Angel, then Gavin, then his papá and even several of the clients exclaimed in greeting for his arrival. In a jumbled mixture of English and Spanish, welcome was thrown from every direction.

"Ah, Lance! How are you?"

"I haven't see you for a while, kid. Have you been abandoning your papá's shop for greener pastures?"

"What exactly are you doing here today, hm? Your papá said you were supposed to have the day off."

"Who's this you've got with you? Is he a friend?

"It's good to see you –"

"Looking well –"

" – it still cold outside?"

"Are you -?"

Lance replied to those he could before disregarding the rest. He spared a glance towards Keith, who looked nothing if not profoundly wary and unnerved behind his attempt at composed blankness. Lance tugged him after him as he stepped further into the shop, weaving around wheelie chairs and trolleys, dodging Angel as she snipped her scissors at him with a snicker.

His papá paused in his clipping briefly as Lance drew towards his side. Mr Alejandro, sitting and half asleep in the clientele's seat, was a regular of his and likely wouldn't care about the pause. Or at least he shouldn't; Lance's papá made him pay next to nothing for the services of his haircut.

His papá was smiling with his eyes as much as his lips when he turned towards Lance. He shook his head in silent reprimand when Lance drew towards him,. "Just what are you doing here, Lance? I thought you were supposed to have the day off today? You weren't looking well this morning."

"I'm fine," Lance said, and though he still felt the discomfort in his belly when he thought of the Princess – _that_ couldn't _possibly_ be fine just yet – he knew he was. He was definitely better now. "Besides, Keith said he'd finally come and see the shop so how could I pass up the chance?"

At his words, Lance's papá turned his already curious attention fully towards Keith. A wide smile stretched across his face as he reached towards Keith's free hand, grasping it in both of his own. "Keith! How wonderful to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you from Lance."

"You have?" Keith asked, blinking rapidly as he glanced between Lance and his papá.

"Which is an entirely normal thing to do about your boyfriend," Lance hastened to add. His parents had taken his coming out as bisexual better than he could have hoped, and though they'd paused for a heartbeat when Lance had told them he'd started dating Keith, their excitement had overwhelmed that hesitancy immediately They'd always been excited for any kind of relationship he'd been in and seemed all the happier for the fact that Lance seemed, in his mamá's opinion, just a little smitten.

Lance might have been, too. He might have been just that.

His papá laughed jovially before releasing Keith's hand. "Entirely normal, yes, entirely normal. Not to worry, Keith. Lance isn't quite as strange as he might seem at times."

Keith seemed surprised again for a moment before that surprise faded into a slight smile. "I'll bare that in mind."

Lance stared at him. He couldn't help but stare. Keith had a fucking gorgeous smile when he let it show.

"But a barbershop is hardly the place to spend time with your boyfriend, Lance," his papá said, turning back to Alejandro's head. He barely needed to concentrate on his darting fingers he was so familiar with his work. "Not that you're not welcome to look around, of course, but there's not all that much to see."

"Thank you," Keith said with so much sincerity that Lance's papá spared him a glance and raised eyebrows. "I appreciate it. I'll admit I've been curious about the place that Lance spends so much of his time. I knew it must have been pretty wonderful if he could talk so much about it."

"You have?" Lance asked, surprised himself now. "You wanted to visit?"

Keith glanced towards him. "Of course I have."

"You said you didn't want to come because –"

"If you'll recall, I've never actually said I didn't want to come."

"No, but you –"

"I just said I didn't want you cutting my hair."

Lance's papá loosed a bark of laughter that managed to all but erase the edges weariness he was never quite able to shake. His eyes crinkled as he grinned. "You've got a good one here, Lance. A good partner is one who challenges you, that's the truth. Someone who takes none of your nonsense."

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment?" Keith asked.

Lance's papá nodded. "You definitely should. But really, a barbershop isn't a place for a date."

"It's not exactly a date, Papá," Lance said, rolling his eyes as he spared Keith a glance. "We're just hanging out."

"Just hanging out?" Angel called from across the room. "Boyfriends never 'just hang out'. Go out for a late lunch or something, why don't you?"

"Is there something wrong with hanging out and not going on a date specifically?" Keith asked with a frown, glancing first over his shoulder towards Angel then at Lance. Lance couldn't stop the smile that across his face. The unexpected innocence from someone largely lacking in such innocence was kind of endearing.

"No, there's not," Lance said overloudly, turning a pointed glance of his own towards Angel where she snickered once more. She glanced away from him, shaking her head as she pretended to concentrate on her client's hair. Lance turned back to his papá. "Did you need any help, though? You look kind of bogged down."

It was true. All of their seats, waiting and otherwise, were filled, and most with regular clients. Lance knew they wouldn't mind the wait, but his papá had never liked them to have to. He assumed the extra pair of hands would be appreciated, even if it meant Keith had to wait in idleness for a time.

Keith wouldn't mind. Lance knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn't. Besides, he knew Lance's situation too, so…

"Lance," his papá said in a tone almost identical to the one his mamá always used against him. When he continued, it was in Spanish, which was surprising because he rarely did so in front of those not similarly fluent. Less surprisingly, however, for the words he spoke. "What a silly thing to say. You have a very nice boy who has afforded you his attention and it would be nothing if not rude to not return it."

Lance blinked, opened his mouth to reply before pausing, then continuing. "But –"

"No but's, Lance," Angel called from across the room, drawing the communal attention of everyone alongside Lance. Even those who didn't speak Spanish themselves glanced his way for Angel was the sort of person that demanded attention. "You don't treat a boy right and they'll up and leave you, they will."

"He's not leaving me," Lance said with a pout, though his hand tightened unconsciously on Keith's. "He's not. He told me that specifically already just this morning."

It might not have been technically true, but Angel didn't know that. Or she wasn't supposed to, though the smirk she turned Lance's way was a little too knowing. "I'm sure he did. You're such a catch, Lance."

"I can hear that sarcasm, Angel," Lance said, frowning further. "It's not appreciated."

"You love it."

"What's that?" Keith asked as Angel turned back away from them, chuckling and shaking her closely cropped head once more. "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish."

"Nothing to apologise for," Lance's papá said, leaning forwards slightly over Alejandro's head. "That's hardly a fault."

"I could teach you if you'd like," Lance offered.

Keith shrugged. "Sounds good. But you didn't answer my question: what was that all about?"

Lance shifted slightly, awkwardly, between his feet. "Just everyone telling me I should take my boyfriend somewhere nicer than a barbershop."

"Even if I asked to come?"

"Thank you. I rest my case."

They did spend a little longer in the shop, talking to Lance's papá – and Keith with remarkably more ease than Lance would have suspected him capable of for his earlier nervousness. But then, Keith was always one to speak his mind in any given situation, regardless of nerves.

Not for too long, however, before Gavin, with his usual quiet insistence, all but herded them from the shop as he passed to the back room. "You're taking up space, you two."

"Oh, as if the shop's not big enough for another two people," Lance called after him as he disappeared through the doorway. But, he admitted, they should probably go, even if he did feel guilty doing so. Another two clients had walked through the door in the time they'd been there.

As they left, Lance's papá called after them in rapid Spanish. "Help yourselves to the till, you pair. Go out to the movies or something, but stay out of this cold."

"Hm," Angel hummed in agreement. "Looks like it might be snow tonight."

Lance felt embarrassed for that. More than that, he felt guilty. And yet at the same time, as he brushed aside his papá's suggestion and followed Keith out of the shop, he couldn't help but be reminded of Allura's words. Suggestions like that his papá had just given him, like similar ones of his mamá when they had so little to give, made it somewhat easier to leave when he thought about them in such light.

_They would want you to be happy. Not to give more than you can. You're allowed a life too._

Lance didn't think he was unhappy, but he was a little saddened at times when he couldn't play soccer. When he couldn't go out with friends for lack of spare change. When he couldn't see Keith because he was supposed to work, or any of the rest of his fellow paladins. He didn't think it was asking for more than he could give to help his family, but sometimes… sometimes it did feel just a little exhausting.

Lance hadn't realised he'd fallen silent as they walked until Keith slipped his hand back into his own and tugged slightly to draw his attention. Lance turned towards him and was caught once more by the small smile on his lips. "I think Allura was right about you, too," he said, as though he'd just read Lance's mind.

"Huh?" was all Lance could think to reply.

Keith paused in step turning towards him. In an unexpected gesture – because it was usually Lance who touched him first – he reached up and poked gently into the centre of Lance's forehead. "You father wants you to be happy and do what you want. To go and have some fun or whatever. I might be misreading things, but I'm pretty sure that's what it was."

Lance slowly shook his head and couldn't help but spare a glance over his shoulder and through the smattering of pedestrians in the direction of his papá's barbershop. "No, I don't think you're misreading anything. I think you're probably right."

Then he squeezed Keith's hand in return, turned them away from the shop and started down the street. "Come on. It really is kind of cold. Maybe the movies wouldn't be such a bad idea?"

* * *

_To the moderator people,_

_Hey. So I don't really know how I'm supposed to go about this so I'm just going to say it. I guess I could use flowery language or whatever, but I think that direct and to the point would be the better way to go._

_Basically, don't shut Voltron down. Please don't do it. It might sound stupid, but it's really important to me. To my friends, too. We wouldn't have met each other if it wasn't for Voltron, and that would kind of be a tragedy. You did what you set out to do, with all that support and camaraderie and connectedness and stuff. If only for sentimental reasons, please don't shut Voltron down._

_I'd be happy to set up a petition if that would help to convince you guys. I don't know what would, but all I can ask is that you please, please, please don't go through with shutting us down. Voltron's special. It shouldn't be destroyed._

_Asking as a friend you've never met but idolises you nonetheless for making this App at all,_

_Sharpshooter18_

* * *

Pidge hadn't moved all day.

Such wasn't particularly unusual for him. On the weekends, he was more than likely to be found still cocooned in his blankets by the time midday passed, either buried deep in sleep or in the world of the Internet. More than that, he rarely ventured from his room when he was a 'he' and his mom was around.

Sunday was her day at home. Unfortunately. Pidge couldn't help but think she'd notice him and who he was at the barest word he spoke.

Lying upside down on his bed, Pidge thought. He'd been doing a lot of that all day – and all night, for that matter – and his thinking hadn't abated. He thought about his fellow paladins. About the Princess. About how she was going in her surgery and for definitely the first time in his life wishing he was uselessly idling away his time in a hospital waiting room rather than his own bedroom.

And he thought about what she'd said. Just as Pidge was sure that everyone else was thinking, he thought about Allura's words. The Princess had never seemed to suit her name more than when she'd spoken as she had the previous night. Her words… they resounded.

Self-acceptance. That was to what Pidge had been striving to attain for so long, because he knew that without first acknowledging that there was nothing wrong with himself he wouldn't be able to urge others to think the same way with any sincerity. He'd thought he was getting there, but…

Allura made him think. She'd seen that Pidge wasn't the whole way there yet, and at her words Pidge had to admit that she was likely right. He wasn't. Not really. Pidge liked being a boy just as much as he liked being a girl, but he wasn't confident enough to admit it.

He hadn't been, anyway. Not until Allura had pointed it out.

 _You're all perfect people,_ she'd said, and those simple words had meant more to Pidge than she would have thought possible. And then to Pidge, _You_ are _perfect, and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of you._

Perfect. No one had ever told Pidge he was perfect before. Matt had said he didn't need to be, but that was different. From the Princess, it hadn't seemed like reassurance as Matt had said it. It didn't seem like a superficial statement either, spoken to placate him or comfort him without any real truth behind the words. From the Princess…

When the princess had said it, it had seemed real. As though he truly meant it. And more than that, Pidge had felt himself a boy at the time. _That,_ he'd never experienced before. Certainly no one had called him perfect as a boy before.

Pidge still didn't really believe it, but what Allura had told him stuck with him like a constantly buzzing mosquito in his ear. That he needed to accept himself and that he should, because he was fine just the way he was. That no one else's opinions should matter but even if they did, his friends liked him for who he was, boy or girl.

That meant something too.

Pidge was staring up at the ceiling when his phone buzzed. He nearly fell from the foot of his bed in his haste to straighten and, propping himself onto his elbows, he clicked the screen to life.

Only to deflate slightly to see the incoming message was from Matt instead of Voltron. The paladins had been speaking consistently throughout the past hours, though had dried to a slight spell after lunchtime. Pidge had nothing else to do with himself but wait; his weekends were often more nocturnal than diurnal, and when not in bed he was at his desktop sending messages to strangers online when not on Voltron, or writing a program dialogue, or infiltrating places he shouldn't be just because he could.

That day was different, though. That day they were all hanging out for a message from Coran as to how Allura was going. How long did heart surgery take? Would she be out in a few hours? Would they know if she was stable immediately or would that take a few days?

Pidge didn't know, but he found himself frowning at his phone at the lack of Voltron-lion accompanying Matt's message. Only to brighten slightly as he read the words.

_Hey, I'm down the bottom. You said you had an hour or two to kill before catching up with your friends, right? Did you want me to come up and get you or are you going to meet me down here?_

This was it. This was what Pidge had planned for the better part of the morning and what had urged him to send a message to Matt and ask if he could spend the afternoon simply _away_ from the apartment. It was fantastic that he was back in town and she would use any opportunity to escape.

It might be the cowards road, but he was going to do it just such a way. He was going to say it. He _could_. Pidge liked himself just the way he was and it was time his mom knew that.

Rising from his bed and tapping out a quick reply that he'd be down in a minute, Pidge snatched his rucksack that contained a constant supply of computer and bare essentials from the foot of his bed. Slipping down the hallway, he poked his head hesitantly into the living room. He could hear his heartbeat abruptly thundering in his ears.

The better part of the wide, primary room of the apartment was consumed by a lounge suite, but the neat and polished dining table alongside the island kitchen counter was the place that Pidge's mom always liked to sit. For some reason, she claimed she liked sitting at that table rather than closeting herself in the very functional study room down the hall from Pidge's own. He suspected it was because she used to share it with Pidge's dad that his mom didn't quite like spending time in it.

As soon as he peered into the living room, his mom noticed him. Of course she did, for she had something of a sixth sense for that kind of thing, despite focusing so completely upon her work.

"Oh, you're up, are you?" She said distractedly before bowing her head. "That's early."

"Not so early," Pidge muttered. "It's nearly three o'clock."

"Early for you, then. I swear, there must be something wrong with your circadian rhythms that you sleep to such late hours. It can't be healthy to spend so much time horizontal, Katie."

Pidge instinctively bit back the words that longed to rush forth. That, despite the offhanded tone and the offhanded topic, he hated it when his mom said she thought there was something 'wrong' with him. That he was discomforted when she called him Katie when she felt like a boy, as though it were in direct defiance of who he was. He shouldn't, Pidge knew, because he'd never told his mom otherwise, but it still hurt.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he finally muttered. It was as much a struggle to produce the words as it was to withhold the others.

"What was that?" His mom asked, glancing up from her computer once more. She stared at him for a moment as he failed to reply before dropping her gaze once more. "If you're going to get something to eat, make sure you clean up after yourself. And use the wipes to clean down the counter. I don't like it when there's marks left from your cups."

"It's just water, Mom," Pidge began, but his mom overrode him.

"Regardless, make sure you clean it up."

She said it so easily, so automatically, with barely a thought behind her words. It struck Pidge. Irritated him as it so often did, but more because she was always like that. Because they rarely spoke when it was not in just such an exchange. They'd been almost close once, he and his mom. Before she'd broken up with Pidge's dad they had been, before he'd all but disappeared. What had happened to that almost-friendship?

Clenching his hand around the strap of his rucksack, Pidge steeled himself. It was now or never. "Mom, I'm going out with Matt this afternoon."

"Oh?" His mom said, not glancing up from her computer this time and continuing with her rapid typing. "That's nice."

"I'm probably going to stay out with some friends afterwards."

"Alright. Make sure you don't stay out too late. It won't do you any good to have a poor day at school tomorrow because of it."

As always, Pidge bit back a grumble. If he ever had a 'poor day' it wasn't because of his sleeping habits. "Alright, but um… Mom?"

_Now or never. Just do it. Just do it…_

"What?" Pidge's mom lifted her gaze from her laptop with a sigh. "Katie, I'm rather busy at the moment, so if you could –"

"I wanted to tell you something," Pidge interrupted her. "No, I need to. I really need to, Mom."

Something in his voice must have alerted his mom to the desperation of his plea. For it was a plea, he realised. He desperately needed his mom to listen to him, if just the once.

His mom frowned, hands actually pausing in their dancing taps. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Pidge shook his head, swallowed, and fought to continue. "No. Nothing's wrong, I just –"

"Because if you're into some kind of trouble, you really need to tell me, Katie. Don't hide these sort of things; I know how messy they can get."

 _Just listen to me_ , Pidge wanted to beg, but instead he shook his head in denial. His hand was clenched almost painfully around the strap of his bag. "No, I'm not into any trouble."

"Then what -?"

"I'm a boy, Mom," Pidge said in a rush. "Sometimes. Today. I'm a boy. I just wanted you to know because this is me. And it's important to me."

Pidge's mom stared at him. She stared for a long moment, blinking slowly behind her glasses. Her expression was utterly blank, even her frown absent. "You what?"

"The thing is, I like who I am," Pidge continued. "I'm not asking you to understand, just to accept it. I like it when I'm a boy, and I like it when I'm a girl. I'm not something in between, but I like it that way too. It just feels right, Mom. Sometimes, I'm not a girl at all."

Her mom was rising slowly to her feet. "Katie, I don't –"

"Please don't call me that," Pidge said, and even he could hear the desperate edge to his voice. _Just this once, please listen to me_. "At least when I'm a boy, please just call me Pidge. I'll let you know, if you'd like. I'll tell you when I'm a boy so you won't get confused."

"Katie, I don't understand –"

"You don't have to," Pidge said, biting back a groan that threatened to arise at the use of his given name. "You don't have to, Mom. I just want you to know. I accept me and that I'm not your everyday person. I know I'm not the daughter you wanted and sometimes I'm not even your daughter at all." Horribly, he could hear his voice waver slightly. The strap of his bag cut into his palm and it was grounding more than painful. It was easier to focus upon than the blank confusion on his mom's face. "I like how I am, Mom. And I hope that maybe at some point you will too."

He didn't pause to hear his mom's reply. It could have indeed been cowardice on his part or perhaps simply fear that urged him to all but run from the room to his mom's call of, "Wait, Katie! We need to talk about –"

The door closed behind him and he was out. A gasp slipped from his lips, of relief or continued nervousness he wasn't sure, but he didn't slow in step as he hastened towards the elevator and slumped against the inside wall as soon as it opened. His knees actually seemed to be knocking.

Cowardice.

Fear.

Stupidity, maybe, because Pidge probably should have waited and spoken to his mom properly.

But he didn't want to. Right now, he'd just taken perhaps the biggest step of his life, and though it might not be towards self-acceptance as Allura had urged him to, he felt he was just a little bit closer. His mom knew. Matt knew. His friends knew and they didn't think he was wrong.

Pidge would get there. Eventually. And he was just a little closer than he'd ever been before.

* * *

_Moderators,_

_I'm writing to you about the frankly unrealistic message you recently posted about Voltron shutting down. If at all possible, I'd like further information on the matter. Why, exactly, is this excessive response necessary? Has there been official complaints? Is someone injured or personally hurt because of the supposed 'privacy issues' you mentioned?_

_I'm not trying to sound aggressive so I hope it hasn't come across that way. I only want to express my sincerest regret – and anger – that the careless words of some members might result in Voltron shutting down._

_Please don't do that. Please. It might sound childish, but some of my closest friends I've made through Voltron. If for no one else, I'm asking that you don't take it away from me._

_Please._

_With admittedly sincere desperation,_

_DiffWizard_

_P.S. On an entirely unrelated note, what kind of copyright provisions do you have pinned to your App? I'm just wondering out of curiosity._

* * *

In Shiro's memory, he didn't think he'd seen Dr Everson smile quite so widely before that evening. It was sincere, utterly genuine, and Shiro couldn't help but smile back.

His response only seemed to make his doctor smile all the wider. Apparently, squeezing in the spontaneous appointment wasn't a disappointment to the man. "I'm so happy for your decision, Shiro," he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand – his left hand – for Shiro to shake. "You definitely deserve it."

 _You're the second person to have said so in less than twenty-four hours_ , Shiro thought and couldn't help but allow an upwelling of fondness to infect his smile. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. If not quite for himself – because Shiro wasn't quite sure if he believed Allura's words or that of his doctor – he'd finally agreed to it. He thought it might make Allura happy to hear he'd spoken with his doctor. It had certainly made the rest of his friends happy to hear.

From what he'd heard from each of them, Shiro knew he wasn't the only one to be so affected by Allura's words of the previous day.

Following Dr Everson's gesture towards the door, Shiro made his way from the now-familiar office and into the hallway beyond. "We'll book a meeting with a rehabilitation officer as soon as possible and see where it takes us from there," he said, following Shiro from the room.

"Well, I have nothing but time on my hand," Shiro said, heading into the waiting room dotting with barely half a dozen patients slouching in varying degrees of attentiveness.

Dr Everson chuckled softly behind him. "Very clever. I feel I must add, however, that though an excess of time is not necessarily a bad thing, but I hope you're keeping busy. Idle hands make idle minds, as the saying goes."

"That's very true," Shiro said with a nod, turning towards him.

Dr Everson paused at his side, tossing a word to the receptionist before turning back towards him. "You'll need to have a bit of a think about what kind of prosthesis you're considering. The degree, your level of dependence, how much time you want to commit to your rehabilitation; I'm sure you're more than welcome to take yourself back to the centre if you'd like for a more immersive treatment."

"Thank you," Shiro said, though he had no intention of returning to stay at the rehab centre at Carla Fey. He would work at his own pace, living in his own apartment, with the support of the doctors and officers from a distance and his friends from closer. Keith would be moving in with him in barely a few months, something that had delighted Shiro from his worry earlier that morning. Where Keith went Shiro was fairly certain Lance would be found as much as he could manage, and Hunk would still likely visit with his mother when he was similarly able. Pidge was never one to be left behind either, so Shiro fathomed his apartment would be rather full over the coming months.

Just how he liked it. It had always felt too big for only himself.

He made another booking with the receptionist for a week's time before leaving the waiting room. Passing down the fluorescently lit hallway, Shiro nodded in passing greeting to the nurses heading in the opposite direction, raised his hand to one at the reception that he recognised from when he'd been staying at the rehab centre, and passed through the double doors.

It was cold outside. Autumn seemed to barely be dangling from the brink into winter and Shiro was glad he'd remembered to bring a scarf alongside his jacket. He might have been able to push through it earlier that day but dipping into evening as it was, the sun almost disappeared, it was definitely needed.

Shiro looped his scarf around his neck as he passed into the courtyard outside the front entrance of Carla Fey Hospital. As he did, he plucked his phone from his pocket and, as had become instinctive for him to do, clicked it alive in search of messages.

They were there. Of course they were. Shiro almost expected them to be.

_Sharpshooter18: How's it going in there? Are you still in the waiting room?_

_Red: I'm fairly sure he'd reply if he were._

_Sharpshooter18: I'm just clarifying._

_Butterfingers: Message us as soon as you're done. We can come and meet you in the waiting room if you'd like._

_Butterfingers: It's really kind of cold outside right now._

_Butterfingers: I wouldn't mind coming in, actually._

_DiffWizard: That's because someone didn't bring gloves and a scarf._

_Red: Several someone's actually._

_DiffWizard: Yes, but you're not complaining._

_Butterfingers: I'm not complaining!_

_Sharpshooter18: And Red, you always wear gloves, so you're halfway there._

_Butterfingers: I'm wearing two jackets, guys. Surely that counts for something._

Shaking his head with a smile, Shiro glanced up from his phone towards the huddle of figures to the right of the hospital doors. "You were more than welcome to come in and join me if you'd have liked to. There was no need to wait out in the cold."

Standing before him, lazing with varying degrees of convulsive shivers, Shiro's friends stood in wait. Lance looked to be attempting to chase the cold away by absorbing as much as he could from Keith, wrapped around him as he was, and Keith – as Shiro had once been surprised to see but no longer even batted an eyelid at – didn't seem to mind in the least. He even had an arm hooked around Lance's waist in return.

Hunk was stomping in place, puffing heavy clouds of fog where he stood and frowning down at his phone as he typed, while Pidge was crouching and nearly sitting on the ground at his side. He was so thickly wrapped in hats, gloves and scarves that, in his folded shape as he was, he resembled more like of a bundle of clothes than a real person.

Pidge shrugged in a way that could barely be considered as gesture through the thickness of his clothes. "We could have. That would have been the sensible thing to do."

"Except that we'd probably take up most of the seats in the waiting room," Hunk said.

"And we didn't know where your doctor was located," Keith added.

"Which wouldn't be so much of a problem, but we couldn't decide whether his name was Dr Einstein, Eastward or Everly," Lance finished.

Shiro shook his head once more, smile widening as he pocketed his phone. "I see you've all discussed this at length."

Lance nodded. "So who got it right?"

"Sorry?"

"Which one of us guessed the right name?"

"There were only three names guessed. Which of you didn't have a contribution?"

Lance jostled Keith in his arms slightly, which evoked only a slight frown from Keith himself but no further complaint. "That would be Keith. He was pretty sure it was none of them but was too chicken to make a guess himself."

"I resent your discrimination towards chickens," Pidge said.

"Even though it's entirely warranted?" Hunk asked. "They're kind of… chickens."

"That was very eloquent of you, Hunk," Pidge smirked.

"Which one?" Lance asked once more.

Shiro laughed. "Sorry, Lance, but Keith was the closest guess."

"Oh, come on!" Lance exclaimed as he dropped his chin onto Keith's shoulder.

"I told you," Keith said.

"Not that it matters," Hunk said. Still stomping in place, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Can we get out of here? I'm kind of freezing my butt off."

"You should wear two pairs of slacks as well as two jackets next time," Pidge suggested.

"I might just at that. At least on a bus it should be warmer, I think."

"A car would be warmer still," Lance said as he unwrapped himself from Keith and they all began their slow walk towards the bus stop. "We should get a car between us. Except I'm broke, so –"

"The responsibility falls to myself or Shiro?" Keith suggested.

"Now you make me sound like a dick."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Oh, and now I feel bad for saying that."

"What makes you think I don't have money?" Pidge asked.

"Because you're, like, twelve," Lance said. "You don't have your own money yet."

"I'm fifteen, actually."

"That might be an idea," Shiro said. "I think it would be good for us to have a car between us."

"A communal car?" Hunk asked, a little incredulously.

"Sure. If you'd like."

"Shiro, you're too altruistic for your own good."

Shiro smiled but didn't reply. He didn't think it was altruism that had him offering as much. He simply wanted to be around his friends.

He paused in step before they'd made it all the way to the bus stop, however, as a buzz vibrated through his pocket. All of them paused, in fact, and in an instant hands were darting into pockets and tapping screens alive.

Shiro didn't glance at his friends. He'd been unable to think of much but Allura all morning, of how she was going, of praying alongside Coran that she would make it, but they hadn't heard word of her. His visit to see Dr Everson had been as much an attempt to distract himself as because he felt he 'deserved' it, as Allura had said.

Now, as the message filtered through, Shiro's attempts at distraction were entirely discarded. His fingers weren't quite shaking as he clicked the message open but Shiro didn't think it was far off.

None of them spoke as they read. For a long pause none of them seemed able to. Then, with a collective gasp, they each sighed their relief.

"She's alright," Shiro said, closing his eyes and dropping his chin. Relief was too small a word to describe how he felt. "She's alright."

* * *

_A word for the moderators,_

_I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to plead you to change your mind. I'm sure you have made your decision for reasons that you deem valid. I write to you simply in a word of thanks for what you've provided for myself and the friends I have made and will keep because of your Voltron._

_If Voltron should close down, if there is no way to avoid such an inevitability, let it be known that you've more than changed my life and those of my dear friends. I will sorely regret such a possibility, such a probability, but I'll never resent you._

_In the hopes that this probability could be avoided, I ask that it be pursued. But if not, I have only one thing to say:_

_Thank you._

_BlackLion007_


	13. Never Alone

First, there was the ICU.

What followed was more extensive than she could have prepared herself for. Days of bed rest, of remaining in hospital under intense scrutiny, of more measurements and readings and poking and prodding that ever before. Blood pressure, heartbeat, respiration rate. Listening for arrhythmia with a stethoscope to the chest to hear what the machines were telling in a language of lines and numbers.

After that, she spent seven days in the hospital. Then, with a tick of approval from her doctor, she was free to go home. In theory, it was as simple as that.

For Allura, it didn't seem quite so simple. The practice was something else. She remembered struggling into wakefulness some indeterminable time after the anaesthetist had arrived alongside her gurney in the operation studio. She couldn't remember closing her eyes but she must have, and it must have happened while she was oblivious to the world. She woke up with a dull throbbing in her chest and grogginess in her head that made it next to impossible to blink her eyes open.

And the tube. Allura had never liked the breathing tube, even if she recognised it as a necessity. It didn't feel right and she could barely bring herself to move in her bed beneath its weight.

Coran had been there, though. From the moment Allura had opened her eyes, her oldest friend and pseudo-father was at her side and clasping her hand. She'd barely seen more than a blurry image of a pale face and bushy moustache, but it had been reassuring.

"You're alright, Princess," he said in a choked murmur. He was probably crying, Allura supposed, which she regretted. Coran was prone to crying, but it didn't make her feel any less guilty for inducing it each time. She struggled to squeeze his hand back to the best of her ability. Allura wasn't sure how well she managed.

It wasn't a pleasant first night in recovery. Allura could only remember bits and pieces of it, and she supposed in the detached, analytical part of her mind that whatever medication she was on kept her heavily stupefied. She didn't mind. She'd rather that than feel anything. The throbbing in her chest was distant and she was quite content to keep it that way.

Moving to her pre-op room wasn't particularly exciting. The following days were long, filled with bed rest that flipped into doctors urging her to rise from her bed and try to move because "It would do you good". Allura tried. She managed fairly well, too, considering everything.

The minimal appetite.

The long hours of struggling to stay awake to watch a television program that didn't interest her.

Her struggle to cling to wakefulness as Coran spoke at her side bare minutes before visiting hours ceased.

Allura was kept on high fluids initially that gradually faded into regularity. She was afforded a pair of terribly attractive elastic stocking that were supposed to help her blood circulate and would have felt more discomforting if the greater discomfort of her chest hadn't demanded more attention. After a few days she was even allowed to shower, though the nurses offered her a helping hand every step she took to the bathroom.

Allura appreciated it. She really did. But it all was a little tedious. Especially given that the doctors said she was doing _fabulously_. Allura didn't feel fabulous, but she supposed she would listen to her doctor's opinion. Dr Hammel hadn't led her astray yet. He'd never been wrong.

It was a long week. A boring week, and discomforting, stuffed with fitful sleep and slowly reducing minimisation. But Allura managed. She managed and cherished the moments that weren't so bad: with Coran, when she was allowed to wander through the halls just a little, when her friends came. Her work friends, her old college friends that had visited from time to time over her illness but had lives and busyness and slowly lost the inclination to do so.

From her paladins too. For Allura, the days that _they_ visited were the very best. They were what kept her going.

They almost made Voltron's final closure bearable.

Coran was the one that drove her home. On her seventh day, Allura's status was deemed acceptable to leave, and she was never happier to see the back of a bed, of a building, of a group of lovely, helpful and nothing but supportive people who could only urge her to hasten in her departure with well-wishes and professions of hopeful regret. As soon as her stitches were pulled out, Allura couldn't leave faster had she tried.

In some ways, Coran seemed almost as excited to see the last of the hospital as she did. More, and far more jubilant. He was a bubble of animation as soon as they climbed into the car.

"Hopefully we won't be heading back to this place anytime soon!" He exclaimed, pulling onto the main road to the sounds of indignant beeps. "Never thought I'd say this, but I think I was actually sick of that room of yours by the end of it, nice as it was."

Allura smothered a smile, as much for Coran's excitement as her amusement for his driving skills. Coran was a dubious driver, to say the least. He always had been and it was something that Allura had grown accustomed to. Her paladins, or so she'd heard, had not. As Shiro said it – in the nicest and most uncritical way she'd ever hear – Coran was an interesting driver but he was his main incentive for buying a car himself.

"That I won't be able to drive for a time," Shiro said. "That will have to be Lance's duty, since no one else has their license. Perhaps I should teach Keith to drive?"

"You could get a modified car," Allura suggested. "I'm sure it won't take much to custom-make one. Expense, yes, but difficult I think not."

"There's no point," Shiro replied with a small smile. "I'll have two hands in no time, won't I?"

Allura couldn't help but smile at that. It made her happy, even if Shiro's struggle to see himself worth helping still saddened her. He would realise one day; Allura would make sure of it. Just as she would with the rest of her friends. They were _all_ worth it.

Now she had the time. According to Dr Hammel, she had all the time in the world. As much as the next person, even. It was a realisation Allura was still growing used to.

"Unfortunately, we'll have to return in just a few days for my first check up," she reminded Coran as they lurched through a traffic light.

"Ah, but that's different," Coran said. His moustache twitched, wriggling in delight as it often did when he grew excited. "Never again for quite so long, eh?"

"No," Allura said warmly. "Hopefully never again for quite so long."

It was an easy drive through the city, if she overlooked Coran's erratic driving as Allura was prone to do. Within the hour they were passing from the city proper and heading north in the direction of White Plains. It likely would have been faster had they waited until peak hour traffic minimised, but Allura didn't want to wait. Coran was more than happy to oblige her.

Allura hadn't been to the estate of Altea for months. Regrettably, as it was perhaps her favourite place in the world after she and her entire family had made the move from their manor in England. A sprawling property, at times it seemed like another world entirely to the hubbub of New York City. Considering Westchester County was barely any distance at all from the city proper, she really could have visited more often. She should have.

Would have, even. Except she'd been bedridden in a hospital.

The thickness of traffic faded behind them as they departed the city to leave them cruising along smooth roads dotted with houses that faded into sparse greenery and the occasional hamlet bypassed in minutes. Allura wasn't supposed to excite herself too greatly when she was only just healing, but she couldn't quite suppress her smile and the nearly audible thumping of her renewed heart as the passed through White Plains itself and trundled along the familiar road towards Altea. Her heart could handle it now. Or at least it would be able to. In future. For now, it managed.

As they curved around the road and the image of the old farmhouse of Altea perched atop its own hill appeared, Allura's breath caught. It always would, and even more so after so long away. She could almost forget about her surgery, about the ache that still niggled at her chest, about… about Voltron. The serenity of the farmhouse manor was encompassing.

The property itself sprawled in a moat of greenery and was one of only several in the region with so much space. The peace induced by that space created its own little world of containment. It looked like a castle, Allura had always thought; far more than the 'farmhouse' misnomer. The castle of Altea, a scene from a fairy tale, had lost none of its mysticism for being lived in much of her life.

Allura would like to show her paladins one day. It was the one place she'd privately hoped to share with them had she the chance. If she survived. Now, with the success of her surgery, it became a when – of when they wanted to, when they felt comfortable enough to. When she could at last meet them in person outside of the confines of the hospital as they had met one another countless times now.

Allura was envious of them for that. She was relieved they'd found one another, but she longed to be a part of it too. They meant so much to her, and with Voltron gone…

Coran pulled up on the wide, round driveway with a crunch of gravel. He was out of his seat and skirting the car before Allura could even unlatch her seatbelt, opening the door for her as though she really was the princess he'd always dubbed her. She didn't mind. In a blast of winter air, the smell of unfallen snow flooding her nostrils, Allura's attention was unshaken from the pale walls of her castle that stood tall and smooth before her. She stared at the wide door atop a short flight of steps, standing regal at the end of a sandstone patio like a quietly waiting oaken sentinel.

Familiar. Achingly familiar. After months of uncertainty, weeks of considering that she might not survive to ever see it again, Allura could only stare at her home with blurred eyes.

"I _am_ home," she murmured. "I made it."

"You did," Coran agreed with quiet compassion from her side. He held out a hand like the gentlemanly butler he'd claimed himself to be years ago and, smiling at the nostalgia of it, Allura clasped it in her own. It was as much an offer of support as it was a gesture of chivalry and Allura appreciated it. She was steady on her feet after a week of recovery, but the thought behind the Coran's motion counted.

They made their way into the house, Coran muttering to her of welcomes and relief for her return that slowly faded into his former merriment. Allura simply listened. She was content to soak in the panelled walls, the polished wooden floors and ornate light shades hanging bright and crystalline overhead. She trailed the fingers of her free hand over the tables standing as runners along the hallway walls extending from the main entrance, brushing fingertips over a clutch of flowers seated brightly in a vase as though only placed there that morning and along the ornate frame of a landscape portrait that was impressive more for its size than any mastery of its painting.

Familiar. So familiar.

Home.

"Can I get you anything, perhaps, Princess?" Coran asked as they paused at the end of the front hall before the wide window to look out over Altea's grounds. "A cup of tea, maybe? Or a plate of biscuits? We'll rustle up something for dinner soon, but if you'd like…"

"No," Allura said with a slight shake of her head. "No, thank you. I'm content."

"Alright then," Coran said, shifting slightly at her side. It was a fidget more than anything, and the suggestion of the motion drew Allura's attention towards him. His moustache was wriggling slightly once more. "Then I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" Allura asked. She blinked. "Coran, what did you –?"

"Ah, ah, just appreciate it," he said before, grasping her hand once more, he tugged her in his wake. Frowning curiously, Allura allowed herself to be led.

She heard them first. It was next to impossible not to hear them for the ruckus they were making. Allura paused in step, because she _knew_ their sounds. She would always recognise their voices from the first time she'd met them in her hospital room and each time since. The sound of laughter, of exclamations, of a reasoning voice and an exasperated sigh. Allura's breath caught and, glancing towards Coran, she picked up her step.

She'd only seen them days before, but this time felt different. It was different for her, for all of them, because they were in her castle.

The upstairs parlour was a large room of tall windows draped in heavy curtains and rich rugs spread across the floor to stave of the chill that the crackling fireplace couldn't. It should have been more than large enough to house five young people seat across every surface or, in Pidge's case, actually sprawled upon the carpet. But they filled the room with their noise and presence, and it was _wonderful._

Allura saw them in a different light in that moment, and not only because they stood in her home. Her friends. They were her friends, and each of them had grown so much since she'd first spoken them. Hunk, who had spoken to his grandmother and was intending to restart at school after Christmas. Pidge, who'd confessed the truth about herself – or himself – to her mother but a week before and seemed to have only strengthened in confidence since. Apparently all was not entirely settled with her mother, something that Allura would be more than happy to get to the bottom of personally, but Pidge had changed.

There was Lance, who was as loud as ever and vibrantly standing as the centre of the conversation with wildly gesticulating arms. He'd approached Allura specifically to thank her but days before for what she'd said to him. Allura hadn't thought she'd said anything particularly profound – she'd simply told him the truth as she saw it – but according to Lance it had helped. He said he'd talked to his parents but days before. He said his parents had all but urged him to take routine days off from his father's barbershop, something that had clearly stunned him.

At his side, where Allura had found his each time she'd seen them together, Keith stood as the quietly considering opposite to Lance's loud enthusiasm. She hadn't expected Keith to change as much as he had, but most of that had arisen even before she'd met him in person. He was different to how he'd first been. He was accepting them as he'd seemed so reluctant to do. She had been utterly stunned to realise that Keith and Lance were actually _dating_ one another, though in hindsight perhaps their Voltron interactions had been a little indicative. Such a step… she still hadn't expected it.

Keith was moving in with Shiro, too. If anything stood as evidence for how Keith had grown it was that.

For Shiro himself... He might be struggling. He might not think himself worthy of help because of something that hadn't been his fault. It was ridiculous, for Allura didn't think she'd met a more deserving man than Shiro, but it didn't matter. He was changing. He'd accepted the help. He was taking steps to further accepting more of it and Allura would make sure she was there with him the whole way. She could do that now. She _would._

They were talking amongst themselves, and though Lance had been leading the conversation with enthusiasm it was clearly Pidge who directed it. She – or he, Allura would have to ask – overrode him in a minute. "God, Lance, it's not that different. You'd think it was an entirely different App altogether."

"Well, it kind of is," Keith said. "It's ours, isn't it?"

"Thank you, Red, I'm glad we're thinking along the same lines," Lance said with a sharp nod.

"This must be the coolest thing in the world, Pidge," Hunk said with an appreciative shake of his head. "You're incredible."

Pidge grinned. "Thank you. I do try."

"It works the same, then?" Shiro asked. "Just the same as Voltron?"

"What are we all talking about?" Coran asked, breaking into their conversation.

As one, five pairs of eyes swung towards the doorway. Allura met curious eyes and she found herself smiling. That smile grew into a full-fledged grin when curiosity morphed into delight, and a bubble of laughter passed from her lips before she could contain herself. "

You're here!" she exclaimed in utter joy.

They were upon her in a second. Before Allura could think to take a step further into the room, she was surrounded by friends she'd not seen half a dozen times in person and yet loved so dearly. A cacophony of sound buffeted her, but she didn't mind. She could barely make out a word of it but for exclamations of joy, warm welcomes, the touch of fingers as they patted her arm in gestures of greeting and echoing laughter.

"You're back! Finally!"

"We weren't sure when you'd get here. Coran apparently doesn't approve of texting and driving."

"You're looking so well. I swear, there's more colour in your cheeks since the other day, even."

"Sorry we crashed your house, we hope you don't mind but I don't think any of us would pass up the opportunity."

And finally, "It's good to see you, Princess. Truly, so good."

Allura smiled at the circle of them spread around her. Shiro had spoken to her of how surreal it was to meet Voltron's paladins in real life, but to Allura it felt perfect. It felt as though everything had clicked into place. She was truly happy; her surgery was a success, she was home, and the five people she'd grown to care the so much about in the past months surrounded her.

"What were you all talking about?" she asked curiously, beaming in the face of her welcomes. Not even the mention of Voltron could dampen her mood "About Voltron? Has there been a final message, perhaps?"

All eyes swung to Pidge, but it was Shiro who spoke. "Perhaps Pidge would care to explain? It's her news to tell."

In reply, Pidge grinned with wide delight. She drew her phone from her pocket with a flourish. "Voltron's dead, Princess," she said with more good-humour than should have accompanied such words. "But it's not gone. Not for us." And with a flick of her phone, she spun it towards Allura to reveal the picture spreading widely on the screen.

It was the Voltron lion, Allura recognised. The lion, except there were five of them, all morphed and curled together and of a rainbow of different colours. Somehow, they fit together seamlessly, as though crafted to join into one, and yet somehow remained individual entities. Allura took the phone from Pidge as it was offered and touched a finger to the screen, to the black and white lion silhouetted at the very centre of the tangle. Beneath her touch it spread its jaws in a barely audible roar.

"This is…" Allura began, staring in wonder.

"Our Voltron," Shiro said from her shoulder. "According to Pidge, anyway. She made it."

"You made it?" Allura asked, drawing her attention from where Shiro had captured it and turning it back to Pidge. "You made it all yourself?"

Pidge's grin spread even wider and the hint of a blush touched her cheeks. She nodded. "Yeah. Just in my spare time."

"In her spare time, she says," Lance said, leaning around Keith to raise a commiserating eyebrow at Allura. "Sure, in your spare time you just make the best thing in the world."

"It's hardly original," Pidge said, though she didn't sound dismissive of Lance's praise in the slightest. "I think I barely scraped past copyright laws."

"It's fantastic," Hunk said.

"And it's just ours," Keith added, and, leaning forwards, he double-tapped onto the lion tangle. They unfurled into leaping figures and swept from the screen to reveal the home page beneath. It was familiar, if not quite exactly the same, but after Voltron had shut down days before it was heart-achingly wonderful to see.

"Just ours," Allura murmured, her gaze resting upon the screen. Never before would she consider such a thing to be so important to her. She'd barely been on a forum in her life, let alone a chatroom. But Voltron had changed that for her. It had changed everything. "Even though it's gone…"

"We're what's left over," Shiro said quietly.

"And pretty awesome leftovers at that, if I do say so myself," Lance said, raising his chin with a self-satisfied smirk.

Allura drew her gaze around her paladins once more. It had saddened her when Voltron had folded, tearing a piece from her that she couldn't quite patch up on her own, but this… this was what truly mattered. This stitched the wound. The people around her that still existed after the original had disappeared. She nodded as she felt her smile renew itself upon her face.

"Indeed we are."

~The End of Picture Perfect People~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is the final chapter! I'm sorry to see it end, but I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts; I'd love to hear from you, lovely readers, even if it's just a passing word. Thank you so, so much to absolutely everyone who has already done so, to those who have time and time again, and to each and every single second that has been spent with your reading. I wish I could thank every single person but... that would take forever! Suffice it to say that I'm so unutterably grateful.
> 
> As an aside, however, this isn't really the end. As tends to happen with immersion into writing, I couldn't really stop. For anyone who is interested, I'll be posting the first chapter of a sequel called 'People In Motion' in about a week or so. Just a heads up that it is kind of different thematically and structurally, so I won't be offended if it's not to everyone's taste, but I thought I'd just let everyone know!


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